


the lights go out (my heart goes still)

by curseworm



Series: the name of being brave [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings in Chapter Notes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Dark, Dream Smp, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fanart, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Manipulation, Near Death Experiences, Not Canon Compliant, Novel, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Past Abuse, Phil Watson Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson-centric (Video Blogging RPF), President Toby Smith | Tubbo, Protective Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Sickness, Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Temporary Character Death, Title from a Sleeping At Last Song, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Trauma, Trust Issues, Villain Alexis | Quackity, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Violence, Whump, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 75,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28099206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curseworm/pseuds/curseworm
Summary: With his old home unwelcoming and his new one gone, Tommy is alone. After hours of staggering through the freezing snow, he finds a cabin.Technoblade’s cabin.He hides himself away in the deepest corner he can find, taking only what he needs to survive, wasting away in the cold and the dark. He’s petrified at the thought of being found out, terrified of what he thinks Techno would do to him.When Techno finds his injured, sick, unconscious teenage brother huddled in a filthy little cave beneath his basement, the rage he feels is immeasurable. The voices demand blood, and blood he will give them. Dream won’t be getting away with this one.(On the other side of the world, in a country that floats on a man-made lake, Philza gets himself in a bit of a pickle.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: the name of being brave [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066781
Comments: 2588
Kudos: 11530
Collections: Found family to make me feel something, MCYT, MCYT Fic Rec, Purrsonal Picks, The Reasons For My Insomnia, What is my life? Fanfiction probably., im a sad bitch. what can i say?





	1. Frozen

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely massive thanks to [Megaronii](https://twitter.com/_megaronii_?s=21) for all the help she offers with the writing of this fic! She beta reads, helps with ideas, and just generally listen to my rambling. Make sure to follow her on twitter — she draws epic art and just generally deserves all the followers.
> 
> It should be obvious, but with the sorts of themes this fic tackles, I feel the need to clarify - this is not rpf. These are not the streamers. These are all characters and this work also, in no way, reflects my feelings about the actual content creators themselves.
> 
> Anyway so I’ve realised that there might be people reading this who are new to the fandom and may not have seen Tommy’s exile arc cause it's kinda irrelevant now. While there was a lot that happened during the arc, and to properly catch up to it would require watching nearly a dozen vods, you will be able to gather a lot of what happened from the context of the fic alone. However, this fic starts right in the middle of a scene which is from [this vod](https://youtu.be/_okO4CssoqI). If you don't know much about Tommy's exile arc, I would recommend watching it from about 15:00 to 50:00 to give you a better understanding of what's going on when the fic starts.
> 
> I also feel like I should clarify that I started this before Techno abolished the canon sbi family. Before then, there had been repeated instances of Phil referring to Techno, as well as the other sbi, as his sons. Now, I have no idea what tf is going on with the fd in canon, but for those reasons in the fic Techno, Tommy and Wilbur are all referred to as brothers and also as Phil’s children. Whether they’re biologically related or not is sort of up to your interpretation.  
> Also, Tubbo is _not_ one of Phil’s adopted children.
> 
> Adding onto that, lots of other newly introduced lore (post-December 16) is also gonna be ignored — unless stated otherwise. This includes things like immortal!Phil and the developments in the Egg storyline.
> 
> -
> 
> This fic has quite a lot of fanart! It's linked in the notes of the relevant chapter but there's also a [Twitter moment](https://twitter.com/i/events/1342574123277373440?s=20) that has all of it that's posted on Twitter. If you want, you could do something like having it open and scrolling through as you read, idk.  
> All of this is also linked in the endnotes.

It was cold.

That was all Tommy knew.

The icy numbness chilled him to his core, left him shivering and shaking and feeling nothing but _cold_. It weighed at his eyelids, dragged at his limbs, made him feel heavy and sluggish and lethargic. He couldn’t feel his right foot. He could only just feel his legs. He could feel his arms, but the stinging, icy pain that lanced through them was arguably worse than no feeling at all. 

The sun was setting rapidly, bathing the snow in warm hues of orange and gold and pink. It would be beautiful, he supposed, if he had been in any sort of a situation to admire it. 

Soon, Tommy knew, he would have more than the cold to worry about. The creatures that shied away from the light of the sun, that hid in the depths of the earth, that were, to most, little more than myths and legends, would emerge from their caverns and hollows and begin their nightly search for unwary travellers. Anyone they caught would be left as nothing but memories, stories to deter other would-be explorers from venturing from their towns and villages.

It hadn’t been until recently that Tommy had had to worry about monsters. In his life, he had always been safe — protected by walls and castles or even just his friends. He had always had armour and weapons at his disposal that eliminated the threat posed by the monsters. He had always been assured in the knowledge that, if he ever did get injured, there would be people to help him and support him and supply him with anything he needed.

But as Tommy was now, stripped of his pride, allies, and possessions, with nothing but the ruined clothes on his back and the flimsy stone sword he had managed to craft, an encounter with even just one mob may well prove fatal.

Tommy didn’t know how much he cared.

He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. He knew that he had been running, running, that he had felt an overwhelming sense of betrayal and sadness and fear. But then he had ventured into the snow, and the cold had bitten at his body and his mind, and now he was just confused and drowsy and unsure.

He was so tired.

It was getting harder to make out his surroundings in the dying light of the sunset. Even then, all Tommy could see was an endless plain of white stretching around him, spanning to the horizon in every direction. It seemed hopeless, his quest, his search for safety, for some sort of shelter.

He had to keep going.

Tommy stumbled as his foot caught on a buried root and he was sent tumbling to the ground. He let out a choked cry as his bare arms contacted the snow, fighting back the tears that welled in his eyes.

He couldn’t cry.

He lay there, sprawled on the snowy ground, holding back tears and the thoughts and memories that threatened to come crashing down.

_Dream blowing up L’Manberg. Wilbur blowing up Manberg. Dream blowing up Logstedshire. It was all the same. It was always the same._

Tommy clenched his eyes shut. No. He wouldn’t, he _couldn’t_ think of that. He had to be strong. He had to keep going. But what was the point? It was getting late, it was getting dark. Maybe he could sleep. Just for a moment. It would be nice, really, a bit of rest after so many sleepless nights.

It would only take five minutes. 

There was a voice in his head that screamed at him to keep going, that shouted at him that he couldn’t give up — not now, not after everything. It sounded like Tubbo.

But he was so, so tired.

Something small and round and hard dug into his sternum. It was uncomfortable. It was annoying. Tommy rolled over slightly and reached up to his chest, his hands fumbling at the annoyance hanging around his neck. He managed to get a grip on it and tore his hand back. A chain snapped.

He was holding a compass. The freezing metal bit at his hand. It was cold and painful and Tommy wanted to drop it. 

But no, wait, that was wrong. He couldn’t do that. It was his Tubbo compass. It was Tubbo.

He pressed the latch with trembling fingers and stared down at the face of the compass as it popped open, at the needle that pointed resolutely to an unreachable place, to the home he would never again be able to return to.

He had to keep going.

Tommy grit his chattering teeth together, pushed his hands against the snowy ground, shoved himself to his feet. 

He couldn’t give up.

He took one trembling step forward, then another, then another, taking solace in the presence of the icy compass clutched in his hand. 

He could do this.

Something on the horizon caught his eye, and he squinted at it, his brows furrowing in consternation.

His eyes widened as he realised what it was, his heart leaping to his throat, a bubble of hope rising in his chest. It was a warm glow of light, just barely visible, previously hidden by the blazing sunset. Tommy would go there. He would get there. He had to get there.

The light held a promise of safety and warmth and comfort.

Maybe it was a village, or a house, or some sort of shelter.

It had to be a village, or a house, or some sort of shelter.

Tommy didn’t know what he would do if it turned out to be a lava pit or a ruined portal.

Even as he staggered forward, towards the light, it didn’t look like it grew closer. It seemed to waver in and out of focus — one second it was there, the next it had blinked out of existence. Tommy clenched his eyes shut, shook his head, and opened them again.

The light was there.

He wasn’t imagining it.

He couldn’t be imagining it.

If he had been more lucid or there had been more visibility, he would’ve noticed the pit of turtles that he passed on his right. He would’ve seen the bee farm that stretched to his left. But as it was, he only had eyes for the light that finally seemed to be growing brighter and larger and more in focus.

Tommy didn’t know when it had happened, but at some point, he became able to make out the fact that the light was a house. A cabin of sorts. Safety. He would be safe.

Tommy had stopped shivering. He was too cold to shiver. His hand was numb from holding the compass. His foot was numb from its prolonged contact with the snow.

But his heart held a warm glow of hope.

It was so close, now. Just a few more steps.

He would be ok.

He would be ok.

He caught sight of a horse outside the house.

Even in his dazed, hypothermic state, Tommy recognised it as Technoblade’s horse.

His heart dropped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER HAS SOME [FANART](https://twitter.com/sugarfur2/status/1342368729456386049?s=21) BY SUGARFUR, OF TOMMY LYING IN THE SNOW! GO CHECK IT OUT!!  
> WE’VE GOT [ANOTHER](https://twitter.com/Silvenpup/status/1355731772567240704?s=20), THIS ONE BY SILVEN, OF TOMMY CLUTCHING THE COMPASS!


	2. Hesitation

Tommy’s eyes were wide with dismay and despair as he gazed at the horse clad in a suit of diamond horse armour, standing calmly within an area fenced off by a barrier of dark oak. The animal stared back at him, its ears perked curiously, its warm brown eyes full of… something. It was a horse, for god’s sake. It’s not like Tommy knew how to decipher horse emotions.

He away looked from the horse, gazed up to the cabin. Of all the people he could find, it had to be Technoblade. Fucking Technoblade, his estranged, hated brother.

It was just his luck.

The knowledge of who owned this cabin had replaced his hope, which had long since died a bitter death in the cage of his ribs, with a hollow emptiness, an all-encompassing chill that went far past the literal cold that still permeated his body. The urge to cry was nearly overwhelming as he stood, alone, outside the house that held everything he needed but offered none of it.

Of course he was alone.

He was always alone.

Tommy drew himself up, trying to adopt a facade of bravado — even if only for himself. He pointed an accusing finger at the horse. “You,” he said, not realising how his speech slurred or his hand trembled, “keep quiet.”

The horse whickered softly, sounding almost concerned. Tommy scowled at it.

He turned from the animal and stared back up at Techno’s house, sparing one last longing gaze at the light that streamed through the windows and the smoke that wafted from the chimney. He could practically feel the warmth and comfort that radiated from the cracks in the wood and the stone. 

But he couldn’t stay here. 

Dream had proven that no one cared for him. The man hadn’t been his friend, Tommy knew that, but he hadn’t been wrong. People despised him — none more so than Techno, who wanted Tommy to die like a hero or some stupid shit like that. So much for being a hero now, eh?

But Techno would probably kill Tommy if he found him trespassing in his house.

So Tommy just had to keep walking. The prospect of remaining outside in the cold and dark brought rise to dread like no other, but he had no choice. Maybe there would be a village nearby he could go to. Maybe he would be able to survive.

( _No, you won’t. You won’t survive. Go to the cabin,_ whispered the same voice from before, the one that sounded like Tubbo. It seemed to be his sense of self-preservation. Tommy ignored it.)

He dragged his feet through the snow as he stepped away from Techno’s house. He didn’t want to do this. He _really_ didn’t want to do this. He wanted warmth and comfort and safety.

But he wouldn’t find that here.

Tommy sighed, dropped his head to his chest, and took a few more stumbling steps away from the cabin.

He managed to miss the rattling that sounded behind him. 

He managed to miss the groaning stretch of a bow being drawn.

He did not, however, manage to miss the burning pain of the arrow that lodged itself in his shoulder. It pierced through his skin and the numbness that had fallen over him and sent a spike of blazing agony lancing through his back.

The momentum of the projectile sent him reeling, and he staggered to the side with a choked scream. He turned wide, pain-filled eyes to his attacker and came face-to-face with the empty, grinning skull of a stray, already reaching back to its quiver for a second shot.

The slowness effect of the arrow he’d been shot with was already taking its toll on Tommy as he tried to back away from the oncoming monster. Its glowing eye sockets bored holes into him, its drab grey rags hung loosely off its skeletal form, the air around its quiver was dense with the harmful potion effect they were infused with. 

Tommy fumbled for his stone sword, shakily raising the weapon as soon as he got a good grip on the hilt. His shoulder shrieked in protest at the movement and he bit back a sob, but this was the only sort of defense he had. He was weak, slow, injured, and, to top it all off, practically weaponless — a stone sword was nothing, after all. 

He couldn’t fight this.

What would be the point?

He’d fight, and he’d lose, and he’d die, and that would be it.

So why bother trying in the first place?

Tommy was snapped quite suddenly from his despairing thoughts as a splintering crash sounded behind him, the otherwise silent night filled quite suddenly by an enraged neigh. He flinched in surprise, twisting sharply, instinctively, his shock allowing him to make a swift movement that he otherwise wouldn’t have been able to — and also saving him from the second arrow shot by the stray. It whizzed within inches of his head, so close that he could feel the wind of it blowing through his hair, and embedded itself in the stone bricks of the cabin behind him.

Tommy’s arm dropped down to his side, his grip on his sword loosening as he watched, slack-jawed, as Techno’s horse leaped over him. Powerful hooves crashed into the stray’s skull, crushing the bones and instantly destroying the magic that held the monster together. The stray fell apart, bones and rags and arrows all falling into a heap on the snowy ground.

Tommy’s eyes were the size of dinner plates as the horse tossed its head back, letting out a satisfied neigh. It turned to look at him and he quickly dropped his sword, raising his hands placatingly, gritting his teeth against the pain resulting from the hasty movement, that shot through his back and shoulder. 

If he were honest, though, the burning pain was almost refreshing after so long in the cold. And man, was he cold. He’d been standing still for too long. He had to keep moving.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok,” Tommy said hurriedly, almost nervously, his words once again slurring together. “I- I’m going now. I’m not going to hurt you, or- or Techno. Just—” Tommy cringed back as the horse took a step forward, clenching his eyes shut, bracing for the worst. This animal obviously had the power to kill him, if it so desired — the power to end his pitiful existence with one fell stomp of its hooves. A muzzle gently butted into his stomach, nudging him towards the house. Tommy hesitantly opened his eyes. “W- what?”

The horse let out a breathy whicker. It almost sounded exasperated. It butted its head against his torso again, forcing him to take a staggering step towards the house.

“Oh.”

Well, if the horse insisted, then Tommy wouldn’t argue. He _couldn’t_ argue, really, as proven by the splintered remains of the dark oak fence and the pile of bones that lay on the snow. This horse was definitely one that got what it wanted.

He ascended the stairs of the cabin with sluggish steps, still weighed down by the effects of the slowness arrow he’d been shot with, and glanced back hesitantly as he stood on the porch. This was trespassing. This was going to end badly.

The horse let out an encouraging little whinny. 

The heartening support paired with the relentless throbbing of his shoulder — he needed to treat his wound, and soon — was what drove Tommy to his final decision to enter the cabin.

So he turned back and, holding his breath, pushed open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always liked the idea that Carl is like, uncannily intelligent. After all, Techno would never settle for an animal that isn’t pretty much sentient.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER HAS SOME [FANART](https://twitter.com/sugarfur2/status/1342429917984694272?s=21), AGAIN BY THE AMAZING SUGARFUR, OF CARL PUSHING TOMMY TOWARDS THE CABIN!! GO GIVE SUGAR THE ATTENTION THEY DESERVE!!


	3. Thievery

Tommy let out an involuntary gasp of surprise as a blast of hot air wafted through the open door. His numb limbs blazed as the heat from the merrily crackling fire, endlessly burning on a netherrack base, washed over them — such a sudden, stark contrast to the cold he’d been in for hours before. Strangely enough, though, his bare right foot seemed unaffected by the warmth, remaining just as cold and unfeeling as it had been before.

A quick glance down revealed the foot to be a pale, pale white. That probably wasn’t a good sign. He’d treat it later.

Tommy took a hesitant step forward, wincing as the heat only intensified. This was such a horrible idea. He threw another glance back at the horse, who was watching him expectantly. Tommy thought that, if it possessed the ability to do so, it would have raised an eyebrow.

“Ok, alright,” he muttered, taking another slow step into the cabin and shutting the door gently behind him. The slowness potion was finally starting to wear off, though the pain from the arrow was still a persistent, sharp ringing in Tommy’s awareness.

He’d treat that later, too.

For now, he needed a safe spot to hide, to heal, to regain his wits and grow strong enough to live without the need to leech of Techno’s supplies. The lack of response at his entry seemed to indicate that, despite the happily blazing fire, no one was home. But that could change at any moment. Tommy would make a pit somewhere, live as some kind of pest within the walls. It disgraceful, really, when he considered just how far he’d fallen. He preferred not to consider that.

Tommy scanned the room, instantly noting the chests that lined the far wall. He stumbled over to them, reaching out with shaking fingers and prying open one of the lids. Inside, lined in neat rows, was an assortment of dusty potion bottles. Tommy reached in unthinkingly, pulled one of them out, unstoppered it, and chugged its contents.

Hey, well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

He was instantly left feeling reinvigorated, like he had suddenly been granted a newfound, enhanced strength. Possibly because he quite literally had been. Potions, as they were brewed using blaze power, left the drinker feeling warm and fuzzy alongside whatever power they granted — and all positive potions, when ingested and not inhaled (splash potions) or injected (tipped arrows), were also accompanied by a temporary ‘high,’ of sorts.

Resistance potions, for example, as well as hardening the skin of the drinker, also momentarily dulled their nerves — and in doing so lessened any pain they felt. This gave them a feeling of invincibility, and could often lead to rash, reckless actions that left them injured even through the protection the resistance offered. Strength potions, like the one Tommy had so thoughtlessly chugged, gave the consumer a feeling of superiority and carelessness, made them feel like they were strong enough to take on anything.

It was this ‘high’ — different for all positive potions, yet it was always there in some form or another — and the negative effects that could result from using too many potions too quickly, that classified many potions as drugs, illegal for use of ordinary civilians outside of dire situations.

And it was this ‘high’ that Tommy felt now — magnified tenfold by how weak and vulnerable he was. He let his hand drop to his side, allowed his fingers to loosen around the neck of the bottle, and flinched in surprise as the glass shattered against the tiled ground. Tommy stared down at it. He blinked. He shrugged and pulled open the next chest.

It was full of piles of some odd green thing. “What the fuck is this?” Tommy wondered aloud. He didn’t care enough to figure it out, though, and so he moved to the next one. 

Ender pearls. Jackpot. Tommy grinned down at the glassy blue-green orbs, reached down, and grabbed a handful. When he needed to get away, these would be perfect. He shoved them into his pockets and opened the next chest.

It was full of bows and crossbows and arrows. Tommy reached in and grabbed an especially shiny enchanted crossbow. Now he’d be able to defend himself too.

His grin widened as the next chest shone with golden apples. He grabbed one stack, paused, and then took another for good measure. Rooting through the other chests gained him the things he’d need to survive — wood, stone, coal, wool, a few packets of beef jerky, and a couple of canteens of water — as well as an enchanted diamond sword, a set of diamond armour, and a stack of blaze rods. The warmth blaze rods radiated was something he was sorely in need of, after all. 

Now all he needed was a little hole to hide away in.

He wasn’t so sure what he’d been worried about, really. Even if someone did find his hidey-hole and tried to take away his stuff, he’d be able to fight them off — what with all this gear and the strength he possessed.

Tommy had seen a pickaxe in one of the chests, so he went back to it and pulled out the tool. Breaking through the stone below his feet seemed like a good idea, so that’s exactly what he did.

Falling through the floor and into Techno’s basement wasn’t something he couldn’t say he expected.

Tommy bit back a cry as the impact of landing jolted through his legs and the arrowhead was jostled roughly in his shoulder. “Fuck,” he swore, gritting his teeth and reaching back to prod at the tender wound. It only served to bloody his hands and intensify the pain. All things considered, mining that stone had been a rather horrible move.

A quiet moo drew his attention to a lone cow that stood in the basement. It regarded disinterestedly him for a moment before turning away with a second, decidedly dismissive moo. A zombie piglin and a skeleton, trapped behind walls of glass, groaned and rattled respectively. They both wore jack-o’-lanterns as helmets.

Tommy didn’t care about them. 

He used his dominant, uninjured, right arm to mine his way into the ground — apparently not learning from five seconds ago when he’d done the same thing. It was surprisingly easy to do with the strength that still enhanced his muscles and the enchantments on the tool he’d grabbed.

Fashioning a rough cave was a quick job, though Tommy was left feeling rather tired at the end. The potion effect was beginning to wear off, then. He placed a workbench in one corner of his little residence and used it to craft some chests and ladders.

He placed the ladders.

He placed the chests.

His hands shook slightly as he dumped his stolen items into the chests.

He stared down at the gapples, ender pearls, armour, and weapons.

His eyes widened as he realised what he’d done.

Tommy’s stomach dropped. Horror rose in his throat, feeling and tasting just as foul as bile.

The full implications of his reckless, stupid actions had hit him like a sledgehammer. Why had he drunk that potion? Why had he allowed himself to get carried away and steal all these useless, _obvious_ items?

If Technoblade returned and his valuables were missing, he’d know there was a thief in his house.

If he knew, then it would be all over for Tommy.

Tommy picked up the items in his chest, shoved them back into his pockets in preparation to return them. He couldn’t keep the gapples. He couldn’t keep the ender pearls. He couldn’t keep anything that had any sort of perceived value.

If Dream had reacted badly to finding chests full of Tommy’s own items hidden under Logstedshire, he shuddered to think of what Techno would do if he found Tommy crouched under his house, hiding away _stolen_ valuables.

Tommy looked up at the roughly hewn tunnel that led into his shitty little cave.

( _What had Dream said, his hand gripping the collar of Tommy’s shirt, ignoring the desperate pleads of the terrified teen, as he held him suspended over the pit that he was about to blow up?_

 _“How about you get in the hole, Tommy?”_ )

Maybe Techno wouldn’t be gracious enough to allow Tommy to escape his pit before he blew it up. Maybe he’d drop the TNT down the hole while Tommy was still trapped inside. Maybe that would be how Tommy lost his last life.

But surely his brother would be more lenient if Tommy didn’t take anything — or, well, none of the luxurious, unnecessary items he’d stolen. He could at least keep the raw materials, the food, and the water he needed to survive.

If he didn’t, he would die anyway. So even if Techno found and killed him for it, well, it’s not like he would’ve fared much better had he left them behind.

Tommy clamoured up the ladder, ignoring the way his fingers, once again feeling the bite of the cold, trembled as he grabbed the rungs, ignoring the lethargy that had been pushed away by the potion but was finally returning to weigh down at his muscles, ignoring the painful twinges of his shoulder as he moved his arm and jostled the arrow. He dropped the gapples back into a chest before reaching into his pockets and depositing all his other stolen valuables. He stared at them longingly for one long moment before shutting the chest with finality he wouldn’t undo. He’d survive without these. He’d treat his injuries on his own, without the help of magic or potions.

He was strong enough to do that, right?

Tommy let out a quiet, bitter laugh. Of course he wasn’t. He knew that, now that the false bravado of the strength potion had worn off. Who was he kidding, thinking he could do anything alone? Certainly not himself.

But there was nothing else to it.

Tommy hesitated before he dropped back through the hole in the floor. The heat of the fire didn’t reach the basement, let alone his cave. He would be so cold down there. But Techno could return at any moment, and he needed to hide. Tommy lowered his head and jumped down, bracing himself for the impact. Standing in the basement, he reached up and replaced the stone he’d mined. He then climbed back down his ladder and dragged a slab of faux-stone over the entranceway to his cave.

The air was frigid.

Tommy slunk over to his chest and pulled out some wood and coal. He fashioned a rough torch with trembling fingers. The heat it radiated was pitiful compared to the warmth of the blazing fire above, but it illuminated his cave well enough to see how dismal it truly was.

God, he hated this so much.

Tommy slumped against the wall and sank into a sitting position, clutching the tattered remains of his clothing around himself in some futile attempt to retain body heat. After a moment, he reached out an arm and snagged one of the bundles of wool he’d taken, hugging it tightly to his chest. He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his compass.

He traced a trembling finger over the words engraved on the compass’ iron case.

_Your Tubbo._

He missed Tubbo. He missed L’Manberg. He missed the past.

Tommy’s eyes slipped shut.

He was still so cold. All the warmth from the fireplace above had been leeched away by the harsh stone walls and the chill that came with being so deep underground.

The arrow still buried in his shoulder sent hot flares of pain stabbing through his back. The arrowhead’s serrated edges had made a mess of the wound as Tommy’s continuous movements had jostled it around.

His right foot was still numb. The skin was pale and hardened and freezing to the touch.

He needed to treat his wounds, but he was so, so tired.

Maybe he could sleep for a moment first.

Just a few minutes couldn’t hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONCE AGAIN, SUGARFUR HAS DRAWN SOME EPIC [FANART](https://twitter.com/sugarfur2/status/1342928666599305217?s=21) FOR THIS CHAPTER, OF THE PART WHERE TOMMY REALISES WHAT HE’S DONE!! IT’S VERY GOOD — GO CHECK IT OUT!!


	4. Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this is needed, but warning for sickness this chapter. Nausea, vomiting, fever, etc.  
> Also medical malpractices because Tommy has no idea what the fuck he’s doing

Tommy came to with a soft groan.

He didn’t know how long had passed.

He had managed to doze, in fits and starts, sitting back against the lumpy rock wall. He was terribly tired, worn out from being scared too long. His shoulder wound, still burning with pain, kept stabbing him awake again and again, and he would drift between sleep and wakefulness for a while before slumber dragged him down once more. 

Tommy’s back ached, screeching in protest as he went to sit up, and his left shoulder throbbed with a powerful, consistent pain that faded to a static numbness as it traveled down his arm. His head felt like it had been filled with cotton, and when he tried to open his eyes they felt scratchy and leaden.

To summarise, he felt like shit.

Tommy scrunched his face up in displeasure and rolled over, deciding that he’d rather fall back asleep than deal with the discomfort that plagued him. What he didn’t expect was the sharp, jagged pain that lanced up his back in response to the movement. 

Tommy lurched up with a strangled curse. His eyes snapped open, the sudden, unexpected pain enough to temporarily shake him of the lethargy that had been weighing him down.

It was pitch black.

Sometime during his sleep, the flimsy torch had burnt down to embers.

Tommy ground his teeth together as the pain slowly levelled out, though the persistent throb remained. He reached out blindly into the darkness, searching for something he could use to light up the cave. His arm felt stiff and heavy as he moved it, and when his hand finally contacted the lid of the chest, it took far longer than usual for his fumbling fingers to unlatch and open it.

He leaned forward slowly, careful to avoid doing anything that could cause more pain, and stuck his hand into the chest. He managed to grab another few lumps of coal and some of the sticks he’d made before he slept, and crafted them into another set of torches.

His horrible situation was once again illuminated by the feeble, flickering light of the fire. Tommy sighed and sank back against the wall, angling his injured shoulder away from the rock. He reached his right hand back and tenderly felt at the wound, barely biting back a cry as the arrow was jostled and his pain swelled again.

“No, no, I’ll leave that there for now,” he muttered, not wanting to deal with the agony he knew would result from actually pulling the arrow out. It wasn’t like he had any sort of bandages or potions to treat the wound with, anyway.

Now, for the other problem he’d noted. Tommy leaned over to examine his still bare right foot, bringing one of the torches close enough to light it up well. The pale white had developed into a rather worrying shade of red, and when Tommy tried to move his toes he found that he didn’t possess the ability to do so.

He placed a hand on the extremity and found that the skin felt hardened, was still incredibly cold to the touch, and that it lacked any sort of sensation.

Had Tommy been one to pay attention to his classes and the impromptu first-aid lessons that they’d been given during the war, he would have recognised the telltale symptoms of frostbite. He would have known not to rub or massage the frostbitten area. He would have known not to use dry heat — such as that of a fire — to warm the skin. He would have known that the best, and quite possibly only, way to save his foot would be to venture back into the warmth of Techno’s cabin and hope that the man didn’t return while the tissues thawed.

During the lesson on treating frostbite Tommy had, however, been too busy contemplating how much of a Big Man he was. So, as it was, he knew none of the aforementioned information.

And, as it was, he decided that the best way to heal his foot would be to bring the torch close to the frozen skin and hope that the heat allowed it to warm up.

Frostbitten tissues burnt far more easily than other tissues, and their lack of sensation meant that it was difficult for the affected person to realise how much damage they might be doing. In the dim lighting of the cave especially, Tommy was unable to see as the flames licked at the sole of his foot and his skin blistered and blackened and began to peel.

After a few moments of this, Tommy withdrew the torch and set it back into the ground. He rubbed a hand against his foot, hoping that the friction would warm it up further. The flames had left the skin hot to the touch, which was probably a good sign.

He stopped after he decided that he’d done enough, then grabbed one of his bundles of wool and tore off a strip, wrapping it around his foot in an effort to keep it warm. That would do.

He allowed himself a moment's respite before he reached out and picked up a strip of jerky. He gnawed at it slowly, considering the steps he’d take from here.

It shouldn’t take too long for him to heal up. A week, at most. During that time, Techno would most likely return to his home. Tommy would be safe here, though. Techno wouldn’t be able to find him, probably wouldn’t even realise there was someone sharing his residence.

And then it would be a simple waiting game to find the perfect time to sneak out.

Tommy swallowed the jerky with a self-satisfied nod. He reached out, grabbed one of his water canteens, and took a swig.

Yeah. That was right. He’d be fine.

Tommy pulled out his compass again and gazed down at it, once again tracing the words engraved on its shell.

He _had_ to be fine. Tubbo was waiting for him.

Tommy settled back against the wall, closing his eyes and allowing himself to relax.

He just had to wait this one out.

-o-

The next time Tommy awoke, it was to an aching chest, a parched throat, and a rolling stomach. 

He blinked slowly, feeling disoriented and groggy. His stomach lurched uncomfortably, and Tommy raised a hand to it, wondering what was wrong.

He attempted to push himself up from where he’d slid down the rock, and realised too late that the action would only serve to further upset his stomach and magnify the nausea he felt.

He dropped back against the wall with a pained groan. His eyes fluttered shut. The throbbing in his shoulder wound was even more painful now than it had been last time, the cold seemed to bite even deeper into his skin, and the torches had once again burnt down to little stubs.

Nausea clawed at Tommy’s throat, and though he tried to force down the bile, it was a futile effort. He lurched forward suddenly, and chunks of partially digested jerky spewed out of his coughing, choking mouth. He took a gasping breath, and flinched as a jagged pain shot through his chest. His stomach continued contracting violently, forcing everything up and out. His face was white and dripping with bile and sweat. The pungent stench invaded his nostrils and he heaved even though there was nothing left to go.

Only once the bout of vomiting was over was Tommy allowed to slump bonelessly against the wall. He tried taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down, but each breath he took was only rewarded by pain stabbing through his chest.

So instead, Tommy resorted to taking quick, shallow breaths as he waited for his stomach to settle and the pain to ebb away from his chest.

He reached out and grabbed a canteen, gulping down some water to wash away the vile taste of vomit and satiate his parched throat.

After stoppering the canteen again and placing it to the side, Tommy shuddered and drew his hands close to his chest. He rubbed them together in an attempt to warm them up. The chill he felt seeped deep into his bones.

He slipped into another restless sleep.

-o-

Tommy’s third awakening was accompanied by a blazing fever, a pounding headache, and sweat that poured from his skin and pooled onto the stone below him.

He raised a hand and placed it against his forehead, wincing as it contacted the burning skin.

Well.

That wasn’t great.

He groped blindly into the darkened cave, snagging the canteen from where it sat against the wall. He managed to open it, raised it slowly, and then poured its contents all over his head.

The cold water splashed over his hair, soaking it and instantly providing him with relief from his feverish state.

He let out a contented sigh.

Even though Tommy didn’t know how long he’d been down here, he did know that he should probably be feeling hungry. But the only thing his stomach churned with was a dull nausea. Maybe it hadn’t been very long, then, if hunger hadn’t set in yet.

Maybe he could sleep for a bit longer.

-o-

Tommy woke with a dry, hacking, heaving cough and an agony that lanced through his chest and throat. He gasped for breath, trying and struggling to inhale any air. Each cough was accompanied by a hoarse, tugging pain in his lungs, as if he were trying to expel his insides.

It seemed like an eternity passed before the coughing fit passed, and by the time it was over Tommy was curled against the wall of the darkened cave, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking slightly back and forward.

He just wanted to be warm.

He just wanted to be safe.

Why was that so much to ask for?

-o-

Delirium followed Tommy’s fifth venture into the waking world.

He blinked his eyes open, glanced around confusedly with eyes that were glassy from the fever that still raged within him. 

Where was he?

Tommy placed his right hand against the wall in preparation to push himself up and had to bite back a scream from the agony that resulted from the movement. He cradled the arm close to his chest, not even trying to fight back the tears that rose.

Where was Tubbo?

Tommy wasn’t sure why the thought of his friend brought rise to a wave of grief that rose up and crashed onto his heart. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know why.

He clenched his eyes shut.

He fell back asleep.

-o-

The shaft of the arrow snapped as Tommy, possessed by a nightmare, flung his arm out and rolled onto his side.

The pain was enough to rouse him, but the wakefulness only lasted a few moments.

The claws of sickness and fever dragged him back down.

-o-

Tommy woke several more times, to cough or to vomit or to just sit still in his feverish, delirious state.

He wasn’t getting better.

-o-

The lucidity Tommy felt when he woke next was something he hadn’t felt since he’d climbed into this godforsaken hole.

His head pounded, his shoulder throbbed, his throat ached, and a thousand other pains plagued him. They all combined into a cacophony of pain and discomfort, one that stifled all his other senses and threatened to overwhelm him. (His right foot, though, remained disturbingly numb.)

But something had woken him.

Something had happened.

And his head was, for once, clear enough for him to have coherent thoughts. Best put it to use.

Tommy remained deadly still as he lay against the wall, knowing that any movement could bring rise to an agony that would blind him and kill any chance of him finding the source of his wakefulness.

He strained his ears.

There was a voice; loud, deep, shouting at something. The only word Tommy could reliably make out was a name. ‘Carl.’

The speaker fell silent. Tommy listened harder.

Footsteps echoed on the floor above him.

Tommy’s eyes widened as he realised what was happening.

Oh god.

Oh no.

His pulse accelerated. His breathing quickened. Terror pooled into his lungs, threatening to choke him.

He was dead.

He was so dead.

(Death would be kinder than the horrible existence his life had become.)

Tommy waited with bated breath as the footsteps creaked and groaned above him. 

He had to do something.

He couldn’t just wait here like some sort of a sitting duck.

Tommy leaned over and pushed himself to his feet. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was enough for him to be able to disregard the pain his actions sent shooting through him.

He had to get out.

He had to go.

Tommy staggered over to the ladder on trembling legs, gripped the rungs with weak fingers, and began to pull himself up.

He was too weak.

He couldn’t do this.

The stomping footsteps above him stopped. They were _right_ above him. There was a light knocking on the stone above him. It was too late to escape. 

Tommy’s breath caught in his chest.

There was a scraping groan as the slab of faux-stone was pulled to the side.

Tommy staggered back, raising a hand to shield himself from the blinding light that trickled through the hole.

_No, no, no, no._

“Yeah, yeah, calm down. I’m going to go. Give me a second,” he heard a voice say. Technoblade’s voice.

_No, no, no, no._

Tommy stared up in horror at the boots he could see milling around the entrance.

_No, no, no, no._

Techno peered down, his red eyes narrowing to try and see better in the dark.

_The TNT was coming. The TNT was coming._

Techno spotted Tommy, and both of their eyes widened. Tommy took another staggering step backwards.

_He was dead, he was dead, he was dead._

Tommy’s foot caught on a misshapen lump of rock on the cave floor.

_Why did the world hate him so much?_

Tommy threw his arms out as he began to topple over, the rock enough to overbalance him and send him crashing down.

“Tommy?” Techno said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Tommy’s head hit the ground with a sickening crack that echoed up to the man that stood above him.

He was knocked out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER CHAPTER, ANOTHER AMAZING PEICE OF [FANART](https://twitter.com/sugarfur2/status/1344150129134153729?s=21) BY SUGARFUR!! THIS ONE IS OF TECHNO PEERING INTO THE CAVE  
> MORE [FANART](https://twitter.com/_megaronii_/status/1345382070567264258?s=21) BY MEGARONII!! IT’S VERY COOL, IT’S OF TOMMY THIS CHAPTER, WITH NEON/GLITCHY GORE — IT LOOKS AWESOME!!!  
> ANOTHER [PEICE](https://twitter.com/nyeeee14/status/1352311096741396480?s=21) BY NYE, OF TOMMY IN THE CAVE!! IT’S SUPER COOL PIXEL ART!!!


	5. Return

Techno’s trip to the woodland mansion had, all things considered, been a resounding success. He’d gotten two totems of undying, killed enough illagers to satiate his bloodlust for a while, and done enough exploring to refresh his knowledge of the terrain — had to keep up his reputation as the Human GPS, after all.

The irony of Dream giving him the maps to the mansion wasn’t lost on Techno, but he was trying to maintain a somewhat cordial relationship with the man, and rejecting down a gift like this was one surefire way to _not_ do that. Even so, he still didn’t understand why Dream had seen fit to give him the maps in the first place — he was many things, Techno knew, but charitable wasn’t one of them. Asking questions, however, was something he had decided not to do. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” was an idiom for a reason, after all.

On the topic of horses — Techno’s one regret was the fact that he’d left Carl at home. He’d seriously considered bringing the horse on his journey but ultimately decided that the pros of travelling by trident outweighed those of travelling by horse. His decision had been wrong. Sure, it had been quicker, but he’d been oh-so lonely without the company of another being. Techno was an introvert and liked being alone, but being _lonely_ was another story entirely.

Ah, well. No point moping about it now. He was nearly home. He’d see Carl again. Phil might be there, too. Techno allowed a small smile to grace his features at the thought of seeing them. He couldn’t wait.

Techno glanced into his bee and turtle farms as he passed them. The fact that it had been days since he’d harvested the resources either of them produced was easy to spot. He’d have to work on that.

Techno sighed. He’d at least give himself a few hours to relax before doing more work.

He gazed up at his cozy little cabin and felt his heart swell. Retirement, he had decided, was good for the soul. The serenity of his retirement meant that the voices and his bloodlust were quieter, less consuming, easier to control.

The voices were always louder in high-stress situations. It was a pain, especially when his lifestyle included fights and wars every other day. But now, for once, they were quiet, a muted hum in the back of his mind rather than the deafening, overwhelming shout he knew they could become.

Techno rounded the side of his cabin and screeched to a halt. His good mood burst like a balloon.

“Carl?” he whispered. He broke into a run, angling for the splintered remains of the fence that had held his horse — his _friend_ — in. He knew, of course, that if Carl wanted to break free he could do it in a heartbeat, but they had a sort of mutual agreement that Carl would remain.

But Carl wasn’t here.

Which meant something had happened to him.

“CARL!” Techno shouted out, desperately clinging to the hope that maybe his friend was just nearby. “CARL, WHERE ARE YOU?”

No response.

Techno grit his teeth and crouched by the shattered fence, picking up a particularly large piece. Any hope of the horse having just wandered off was lost as he dusted off the snow that lay on it. Carl was nowhere in sight, and his fence had been broken a while ago, if the build-up on snow was anything to go by.

Carl was missing and had been gone for at least a few days.

Someone had taken his friend.

The rage that rose at the thought of that, at the thought of someone forcefully stealing his friend — because he would never leave Techno of his own volition — also brought rise to the voices.

 _Tommy,_ they chanted, _Tommy, Tommy, Tommy._

Had Tommy done this?

Techno’s hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword.

If Tommy had done this, then when Techno found him it wasn’t going to be pretty.

 _No,_ said the voices. _No, no, no._

Ah. Ok then.

As soon as they were satisfied that Techno didn’t think Tommy had been the one to take Carl, they went back to chanting his brother’s name. Techno pushed them to the side, deciding to focus on his horse problem before unpacking whatever the voices meant.

His horse problem that was, rather conveniently, solved a moment later as Carl pranced around the corner of the cabin.

The relief Techno felt was immeasurable.

He ran up to the horse and threw his arms around his neck, burying his head into his soft mane. Carl whickered softly, comfortingly, as though to soothe Techno’s distress.

Techno heaved a deep breath before withdrawing slightly. “Never do that again, Carl,” he said, his voice thick with fading worry. “God, you have no idea how scared I was. What are you doing out here, anyway? Why did you break your fence?”

Carl flicked his ears and shook his head, staring at Techno emphatically. Techno had, over the time they’d known each other, become quite adept at reading the horse’s expressions. This time, his eyes seemed to say, _“It doesn’t matter.”_

Carl lowered his head and butted it against Techno’s chest, pushing him towards the house. _“You need to go inside.”_

Techno laughed gently, patting Carl’s head. “If you insist, then. I’m rebuilding your fence as soon as I can, though. What if you’d gotten shot by a stray or something?”

Carl snorted.

“Ok, ok, I do know that you can take care of yourself. But you can’t blame me for worrying.”

Carl snorted again.

Techno got a distinct impression that he was missing something. 

“Well, don’t go wandering away again,” Techno muttered as he walked over to his doorway. His foot caught on something buried under the snow.

Curiosity piqued, Techno paused and bent down. He carefully patted the snow until his hand contacted the item. He pulled it up. It was a flimsy little stone sword.

The weapon was honestly kind of sad, Techno thought as he looked down at it. The handle wasn’t at all sanded and was covered in rough splinters of wood. The blade itself was chipped and cracked, and barely looked like it would survive a single use, and the leather straps that bound the handle and blade together was so torn and frayed that it looked like it was about to fall apart.

As if to prove his point, one of the straps snapped. The blade fell to the ground, leaving Techno holding the depressing little handle. He dropped it with a sigh. Overall, not a very intimidating find.

Even so, Techno raised his guard as he crept into his house. Though sometimes monsters could find and drop weapons like that, it was far more likely that it was from a person. The only person Techno would even consider letting near his house was Phil, and it couldn’t have been him. For one, the man would never use such a flimsy weapon. He’d also never just leave it discarded in the snow. And if he were home, he would’ve come out to greet Techno by now. 

The realisation that Phil wasn’t here was disappointing, to say the least, but hardly unexpected. The man had his own things to do. His life didn’t revolve around Techno. It still would’ve been nice to see him, though.

But even if Carl was safe, even if his original fears of his horse being stolen had been proven wrong, the signs still pointed towards some unknown party having, at the very least, passed by his house. And Techno didn’t like that.

The first thing he was greeted with upon stepping into the foyer was the shattered remains of a bottle, a few dregs of the potion it had contained still sticking to the glass.

Ok, well, someone had definitely broken in.

Maybe that’s why Carl had been so insistent that he go inside.

Techno made his way to the chests that lined the wall, taking note of all the obvious disturbances. Many of them were unlatched or half-open, and much of the dust that should have been present due to the house’s lack of recent inhabitants was missing.

The first chest he pulled open was the potion chest. As expected, there was a potion missing. Strength, to be exact. Even if it hadn’t been for the hole in the rows of bottles that lined the chest, there were also fingerprints implanted in the dust, far smaller than either his or Phil’s.

Potions were something Techno hadn’t used for a while, not since his retirement had begun. The sobriety had actually made a notable difference to his mind and to the intensity of the voices, which had surprised him somewhat. He’d always assumed that the stories of potions being used as drugs were just that — stories. A myth that gave the people that knew the truth and freely used potions the upper hand on those that believed it and abstained from their use. That was, apparently, untrue.

Either way, the fact that someone had been rooting around his previously unused potions chest told him all he needed to know. There was, or at least had been, a little raccoon in his house.

Looking through the other chests revealed many of them to be missing valuables — gapples, ender pearls, blaze rods, weapons, and armour. Nothing he’d miss too badly, but annoying all the same. There were also some base materials missing — wood and stone and such — but that, at least, was something he couldn’t care less about.

Techno sighed as he pulled open the final chest. 

He paused and blinked down at its content.

All the items he’d noted as missing were heaped in a messy pile. 

Some thief this guy was.

Shrugging — it’s not like he was going to complain about _not_ being robbed — Techno closed the lid and stood.

He wondered if the voices knew anything.

Now that he had actively cast his mind to them, he could once again hear their chant. _Tommy, Tommy, Tommy._

Tommy had been here? Was the one that had gone through his chests?

_Yes, yes, yes. Still here. Down, down, down below._

Thanks, voices.

_Technosupport._

Techno mined the stone that covered the entrance to his basement and climbed down the ladder. To his immense relief, Bob, Hubert and Moon were all safe and unharmed.

If Techno were honest with himself, he missed Tommy. All the time he had been spending with Phil and Wilbur — or, well, his ghost — reminded him of the good times, the old days, before there were sides and fights and wars. It reminded him of a childhood full of family and smiles and laughs. It reminded him of the past he so desperately wished to go back to.

Shaking himself from the memories, Techno continued the search for his brother.

The voices had said below, so Techno assumed they meant even deeper than the basement.

He stomped his feet as he walked around, trying to find an area where the stone was hollow. Techno grinned victoriously as he heard the echoing thud he’d been listening for. Dropping to his knees, he rapped against the floor experimentally and was once again rewarded by a reverberating knock.

He’d found it.

 _Technopog_ , said the voices.

Techno traced the crack that, now he was looking for it, he could tell was unnatural. He dug his fingers into it and pulled, and a slab of stone came up too, with a scraping groan.

Techno coughed as the pungent smell of vomit and bile and other, less pleasant things, wafted up from the pit he’d revealed. He gagged slightly, taking a few steps back, raising a hand to block his nose. Even then he could practically taste the vile stenches.

Holy _shit_ , that smelled horrible.

Techno paced around the lip of the tunnel's entrance. He really didn’t want to go down there, not if it smelt this bad from all the way up here.

 _Tommy, Tommy, Tommy,_ said the voices. _Go down, go down._

“Yeah, yeah, calm down. I’m going to go. Just give me a second.”

He walked for a moment longer before coming to a stop. He lowered his hand from his nose, made an effort to only take shallow breaths, and peered into the darkness of the pit. His eyes watered from the nauseating smell.

Surely Tommy wasn’t down there.

He couldn’t be down there.

Light reflected off terrified blue eyes. 

Techno’s own eyes widened.

The glimmer of light disappeared as the shadowed figure retreated further back into the cave.

“Tommy?” he whispered, dread and denial clawing at his throat. 

There was no way Tommy was living down there.

His only response was a sickening crack that echoed up the tunnel.

“Tommy!” the name came out as a shout this time, laden with shock and concern.

This time, there was nothing but silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should say here (it’s January 16th while I’m writing this) that Dream giving Techno a map to a woodland mansion and then Techno getting totems from it — that happened in canon. It's been a month and in dream smp time a month is more than enough time for something to become irrelevant, so I dunno if all of you have seen the stream where that happened (linked [here](https://youtu.be/c9PCSdfcjTc)) but yeah, I’m not making that up! The actual interaction they had on the mountain would've been very different from the one in the stream, though, because in this AU, Dream and Techno have quite the history (it's explored later in the fic)
> 
> SUGARFUR DREW SOME MORE POGCHAMP [FANART](https://twitter.com/sugarfur2/status/1345690817248321536?s=20) THIS CHAPTER!! IT’S OF TECHNO STANDING OUTSIDE HIS CABIN, CONSIDERING TOMMY’S SAD STONE SWORD


	6. Butchers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of the dialogue in the first part of this chapter is taken directly from the stream where Phil gets put under house arrest

Far away, in a country that floated on a man-made lake, a lonely father sighed.

Phil hated spending more than a few days in L’Manberg at a time. His status as a hybrid was something he kept very close to his chest, so whenever he was in the country he had to keep his wings tucked away.

He wasn’t really sure why he didn’t want the citizens of the country to know — it wasn’t as though he was the only hybrid here, and hiding his wings for too long was uncomfortable and painful; cramping the muscles and leaving the sleek grey feathers displaced and brittle. He’d only been in L’Manberg for three days and was already starting to feel the ache in his back.

But Phil had lived through a time when hybrids were ostracised and discriminated against for the mere fact that they weren’t fully human, and even though things had changed since then, his habits still hadn’t. 

He was drawn from his thoughts by an incessant ringing of his doorbell.

“Phil! Phil! Come out here!” shouted Tubbo’s voice.

“Yes, yes, hello!” Phil called back, standing and making his way across his house. The ringing continued. “Oh my god, you only need to ring it once,” he grumbled as he pulled open the door. “I’m right here.”

Phil blinked. Outside his door, looking rather a lot like they were dressed in Halloween costumes, stood Quackity, Tubbo, and Fundy. Said Halloween costumes were aprons splattered with bright crimson blood. Behind them, looking rather a lot like he didn’t want to be there, stood Ranboo. He, at least, was wearing normal clothes.

“Hi, Phil!” Tubbo and Fundy said, and despite their cheer, Phil could tell that there was something off about their tone.

“Hello,” Phil said, hiding his confusion behind a friendly smile. “What’s with the getups?”

“Uhh,” said Tubbo.

“They were cooking,” supplied Ranboo.

The other three nodded. “Yeah, we were cooking.”

“Potatoes,” said Tubbo.

“Red potatoes,” said Ranboo.

The other three nodded again. “Yeah, we were cooking red potatoes.”

Phil blinked again. Feeling rather bemused, he took a step back. “Well, it’s raining. Why don’t you come inside?”

The four stepped into his house, though Ranboo had to stoop slightly to enter the too-short doorway.

“Phil,” said Quackity as soon as the door was closed. “We have a simple request.” There was a subtle shift in tone that made Phil tense slightly, and he threw a wary glance around the room. Suddenly, he felt very outnumbered. “We’re looking for Technoblade.”

Quackity took a step forward. Phil was uncomfortably aware of how exposed he was without his armour. “I don’t think you should ask why. I don’t think you should ask any questions. Just know that we are looking for Technoblade.”

Phil scoffed. “You don’t think I should ask any questions?”

“Yes,” said Quackity, his tone clipped. “As per the request of the president, you, as a citizen of L’Manberg, must comply. We demand that you tell us where Technoblade is.”

“Phil,” Tubbo said quietly. “I think it would be best if you just gave us his location.”

Phil’s hand dropped to the sword sheathed by his side. The air of the room got noticeably tenser.

“Phil, Phil,” Quackity said, taking another step forward. Phil’s fingers tightened slightly. “Just tell us where he is. You’re a citizen of L’Manberg, and we’re trying to get justice for our country. You should care about this just as much as we do.”

Even if it hadn’t been for their bloody garb or threatening presence, there was something that flickered in Quackity’s eyes as he mentioned the ‘justice for their country’ that set warning bells off in Phil’s mind.

“So Philza,” Quackity continued. “Just tell us where Technoblade is.”

“Snitch-za,” whispered Fundy. Phil shot him a glare.

After a moment, though, he let his hand drop to his side and pulled himself up to his full height. “I’m not going to tell you,” he said, his voice cold. The already fragile facade of this visit being a cordial one evaporated as soon as the words left his mouth. “I would never tell you. He’s changed his ways. He’s not the same person you met.”

“Philza, that doesn't matter,” Quackity snapped sharply. “It doesn’t change what he did to this country.”

“Phil, he spawned _withers_ where this house currently stands.” The tone of Tubbo’s voice seemed to indicate that he still held hope that Phil would side with them.

Phil coughed. “Yeah, I mean, water under a bridge and all.”

Quackity took two long paces until he stood toe-to-toe with Phil. When he spoke, his voice was hard and dangerous. “It’s not ‘ _water under a bridge_ ,’ Philza. The _war crimes_ Technoblade committed will never be ‘ _water under a bridge_.’ Tell us where he is, _now_. This is not a request. This is a demand.”

Phil scowled down at Quackity, pushing the man back with a harsh shove and drawing himself up. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Fundy.

“Stay loyal, grandpa,” said the fox. He stared at Phil with pleading eyes. “Do it for the country.”

“Stay _loyal_?” Phil asked disbelievingly. How _dare_ these people come prancing into his house, demand these things of him, speak of a non-existent loyalty while ordering him to sell out his own son, and then tell him to do it _for the country?_ “And where exactly do you think this ‘loyalty’ comes from, hmm? Let me tell you, Fundy: it comes from nowhere. It doesn't exist. I have no loyalty to you or to this country and am not going to rat Techno out to a group of people that so obviously want to kill him. He’s my _son_ , for god’s sake.”

Fundy’s ears drooped slightly. “Yeah, and I’m your grandson.”

Phil turned a scorching glare to him. Rage burned beneath his skin. “And I don’t _care_.”

Fundy flinched.

“Well,” said Quackity with a careless shrug. “We tried.”

Before Phil could think to react, Ranboo, who had somehow managed to sneak up behind him, seized ahold of his wrists and pinned them behind his back. He let out a shout and tried to pull away, to twist around, but Ranboo’s grip was too strong. “Sorry,” muttered the enderman hybrid as he took the sword that hung from Phil’s belt.

Phil longed to extend his wings then and there, to knock Ranboo back with the feathered limbs and fight off the other invaders in his house. But even if he managed to incapacitate Ranboo, he’d still be outnumbered three to one, and it would reveal his hybrid status to the world. That wasn’t something he needed.

“If you’re not going to help us do it the easy way, well, we’re gonna have to do it the hard way,” Quackity turned to Tubbo and Fundy. “Search through his things. We’ll find something that will lead us to the _pig_.”

Phil struggled against the grip Ranboo had on his wrists, seething and shouting and biting out curses as the people he’d considered to be his friends tore through his chests and barrels, looking for something that would help them kill his _son_.

“Fuck you,” he hissed as Fundy passed by him. He strained against Ranboo’s hold. “You’re no grandson of mine, do you hear me? You’re fucking dead to me!” Fundy didn’t spare him a glance, but Phil could see the way his eyes glistened with tears. 

_Good,_ he thought viciously.

“Hey, Big Q,” Tubbo said eventually, holding something out. “Look what I found.”

Without even seeing it, Phil knew what it was. His heart sunk. “Shit,” he whispered, panic clawing at his throat. That was the worst possible thing they could find.

He needed to think of something, and fast.

His eyes flickered desperately around the room and landed on the fireplace.

Phil let out a sharp exhale. He knew what he could do.

He abruptly stopped struggling and relaxed into Ranboo’s hold. He felt the hybrid start slightly in surprise as his job of restraining Phil was suddenly made a lot easier. Phil waited with bated breath as he watched Tubbo and Quackity crow over their victory.

“Oh Philza, Philza, Philza,” Quackity shouted gleefully. “You’ve really fucked up this time, you know?”

“What is it?” Fundy asked curiously.

“Yeah,” said Ranboo, his grip on Phil’s wrists loosening slightly as he leaned over to try and catch a glance of the compass in Tubbo’s hand. “That’s what I want to know too.”

Tubbo grinned. “This,” he said, holding the compass out for the room to see, “is a compass with the words _Techno’s Compass_ engraved onto it.” Phil resisted the urge to take his chance then. It would be too risky. The fire was too far away. There would be a better time later. “I think we can all guess where it leads,” Tubbo finished.

“Why were you carrying this around, hmm?” Quackity asked mockingly.

“Go fuck yourself,” Phil snarled.

Quackity ignored the curse. “Philza,” he said, his tone taking on a more serious air, “we will never forget that you weren’t cooperative with us today.” He turned to Tubbo. “Mr. President, I believe that deserves some sort of punishment.”

Tubbo’s eyes widened and shifted slightly. “This… could be considered a crime,” he admitted, suddenly sounding unsure.

Upon seeing Tubbo’s hesitation, Quackity once again took charge of the situation. “Philza,” he said. “You didn’t help us. We told you we were willing to do it the easy way and you spat in our faces.”

Phil glowered at Quackity. For a moment, he considered literally spitting in his face but decided that the petty satisfaction wouldn’t be worth anything.

“Ranboo,” Quackity said, “tie him to that pole near the fireplace. We’ll come back later with more suitable chains. Until further notice, you, Philza Watson, are under house arrest for the obstruction of justice. You can’t say we didn’t try with you.”

Phil ground his teeth together and didn’t say anything. A shouting match would get him nowhere.

Tubbo hung back as Quackity and Fundy turned and left.

Perfect.

This was his chance.

Tubbo watched silently as Phil slunk over to the fireplace, his head bowed, needing no prompting from Ranboo. His compliance — unexpected but no less welcome — meant the hybrid felt comfortable enough to turn his back to Phil as he picked up the rope.

Phil tensed as Tubbo stepped closer, getting ready to leap into action.

“Look, Phil,” he said, his voice quiet and genuine. Phil’s stomach churned guiltily as he heard the sincerity the president spoke with. Tubbo continued, “I really am sorry about—”

He was cut off with a yelp as Phil turned sharply and leapt at him, tackling him to the ground. In one quick, fluid movement, Phil withdrew a dagger from its sheath at his calf, hoisted Tubbo up by the collar, and held the weapon to his throat. He would never actually kill him, of course — especially considering the fact that he knew Tubbo was on his last life — but this needed to be a convincing performance. Techno’s life may well depend on it.

He could feel Tubbo shaking in his arms, could almost hear his thundering heartbeat. “Please, Phil,” the poor kid gasped. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to– please don’t—”

“Shut it,” Phil snapped at Tubbo as Quackity and Fundy burst back into the house, drawn by the commotion. He felt Tubbo flinch before he fell silent. This needed to be done, he told himself firmly as his guilt threatened to rise again.

“Stay back,” Phil snarled warningly. He wished he could extend his wings — spread them out wide and flare up the feathers — to make him seem even more threatening. Even without them, though, he cut an imposing figure, and the L’Manbergian’s eyes were wide with surprise and fear. Neither of them had expected such an act of defiance. “Ranboo,” Phil continued, “get in front of me.”

When the hybrid didn’t move instantly, Phil dug the knife a little deeper into Tubbo’s throat. Blood welled from the wound and Tubbo let out a little cry of pain. “ _Now_ ,” he said.

He caught the tiny nod from Quackity gave and relaxed minutely as Ranboo stepped into his field of view.

“Good,” he said. “Now,” he held out a hand. “Tubbo, give me the compass. Move slowly.”

Phil grit his teeth together as Tubbo remained still, the kid unwilling to give the compass up. He tightened his hold on hilt of his knife, pulled it a little further towards himself. “Do it or I _will_ fucking kill you.”

“Do it,” Quackity bit out finally, his eyes full of murderous rage as he watched the scene unfold in front of him, helpless to intervene. “Do it, Mr. President.”

Tubbo swallowed heavily and withdrew the compass from where he’d stuffed it in his pocket. Phil watched, tense and ready for any unexpected moves, as Tubbo raised it to his outstretched hand.

As soon as he held the compass, he dropped the dagger, shoved Tubbo into an unsuspecting Quackity, and used the resulting confusion to whip around and throw the compass into the blazing fireplace. The compass meant a lot, held far more sentimental value than the iron and redstone it was crafted from, but Techno’s life and wellbeing were worth more.

If he had been any slower, his plan wouldn’t have paid off, because the moment he let go of it he was tackled to the ground; his hands pinned behind his back, his face pressed harshly into the rough stone hearth. Despite the pain, his expression was that of a victorious smile. 

Even if they managed to recover the compass before it completely melted, the heat would’ve already destroyed the tracking enchantment imbued into it. They had no way of finding Techno now. Phil’s job was done.

“You,” said Quackity, his voice soft and dangerous and full of a cold promise, “are going to regret that.”

He stepped forward until standing over Phil, who glared up at him defiantly. “Go. Fuck. Yourself.” Phil said slowly, taking care to enunciate each syllable.

Quackity didn’t answer. He only raised one of his boots and smashed it into Phil’s temple.

The world went dark.

-o-

The next morning, when the puppetmaster heard of Philza’s arrest, a slow grin spread across his masked face.

With one hand, he leafed through the pile of maps that lay on his table, each one of them leading to a different woodland mansion. With the other, he absentmindedly rolled a glowing orb back and forward, ignoring the cries of the ghost he’d trapped inside.

“Four down, none to go,” he whispered to himself. “Checkmate, TommyInnit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE’S SOME [FANART](https://twitter.com/no_bodyexe/status/1343367624021958657?s=21) OF FERAL PHILZA HOLDING TUBBO HOSTAGE, BY VALZA!! GO CHECK IT OUT AND SHOWER HER WITH APPRECIATION!!!  
> HERE’S [MORE](https://twitter.com/sugarfur2/status/1346333648790949890?s=21) BY SUGARFUR, A SHORT COMIC OF PHIL THROWING THE COMPASS INTO THE FIRE  
> [ANOTHER](https://twitter.com/saymsanidiot/status/1363790986405683200?s=21) BY SAYM OF RANBOO HOLDING PHIL HOSTAGE


	7. Treatment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for rather graphic depictions of injuries and surgery, as well as amputation and blood
> 
> I’m telling you now that this is not a nice chapter. If you’re someone who gets squeamish easily, then proceed with caution. The beginning and end of the really bad parts is marked with ▷ and ◁, and I’m putting a summary in the end notes for anyone that does want to skip over it

Concern instantly overrode any part of Techno that still cared about the putrid stink that wafted from the hole, so he withdrew a torch and leaped down the rough, rocky tunnel. Even though he braced for landing, the impact of hitting the ground was still jarring. As suspected, the smell was even worse down here. But Techno couldn’t worry about that.

He took a moment to steady himself before he rose to his feet and scanned the cave he was in.

Words that jumped to mind included tiny, filthy, and cold. There was no way that Techno could stand that would let him extend both arms without at least one of them brushing against the rough walls. Said walls were definitely not things Techno would want to touch, as they were covered in muck and grime and filth. He shuddered. Ew. 

The floor was also covered in a disgusting layer of… well, Techno would rather not think about what he was stepping in. After this he was going to get himself a brand new set of boots.

The cold of the cave may have been the worst part, though. Even through his heavy winter clothing, Techno could feel the bite of the dank, damp chill that pervaded every inch of the cramped little cave.

Little stubs of torches lay scattered around, but a quick glance told Techno that none of them were new. That meant that there had been no light sources down here for at least a few days.

The most worrying part of all this was, of course, the fact that the prone figure splayed on the cold, hard ground had been living here for god knows how long. In the flickering light of the torch, it was difficult to tell what sort of a state Tommy was in, but this environment alone meant that Techno knew that the healing process wouldn’t be easy. Even someone at peak physical condition wouldn’t fare well in this cave, and Techno somehow doubted that ‘peak physical condition’ was something that could be used to describe Tommy right now.

 _Look after him,_ said the voices. _Look after Tommy. Technodoctor._

Techno glanced at Tommy, then at the ladder, then back at his brother. There was no way he’d be able to safely transport him up the ladder. So, as much as he hated to extend the time Tommy spent trapped in his horrible little hole of his, Techno had no choice but to pull out his pickaxe and begin mining.

After creating a staircase in record time, Techno hurried back to Tommy’s side. He knelt down and carefully slipped his arms under his brother’s shoulders and knees.

The kid was worryingly light, all skin and bones and nothing else. His clothes — if the pitiful rags he wore could even be called that — hung loosely off his skeletal form, and his skin burned with the unnatural heat of a fever, a stark contrast to the chill of his environment. Techno held him as gently as possibly, as though he were made of glass and the slightest misstep or jostle could shatter him. With how frail he felt, Techno worried that that might not be such an exaggeration.

Now, Tommy had always been a gangly kid — tall, thin and with awkwardly long limbs — but this was so much worse than usual. It only became more apparent as Techno crested the top of his staircase and Tommy was bathed in the warm light of the cabin.

His brother’s state somehow managed to be even worse than Techno had thought.

The skin of his face clung tightly to the skull beneath, giving him a gaunt, skeletal look, and he burned with a feverish flush. His lips and fingertips, however, were a worrying shade of blue. His filthy, sweat-soaked hair stuck to his forehead, and his breaths came in short, shallow gasps.

 _Pneumonia,_ Techno thought grimly, recognising the symptoms for what they were.

He gently placed Tommy onto the table that stood in the centre of the room they were in, having no better surface to treat his wounds on, and turned to the cabinet in the corner of the room.

Phil had insisted, as they’d built and supplied the cabin, that Techno made sure to keep a supply of as much medical equipment as he could. 

_(“You live in a cabin in the middle of nowhere,” Phil had said firmly as Techno argued that he wouldn’t ever need all the equipment the man was bringing him. “I’m not always going to be here to help you. If you get hurt, or someone else gets hurt out here, you need to be prepared.”_

_Techno had relented with a sigh.)_

He couldn’t help but be grateful for that as he opened a cabinet in the corner of the room to reveal shelves full of medical equipment and potions. 

The first thing Techno took was a surgical mask, which he pulled over his mouth and nose, and then a pair of sterile gloves.

He then pulled out everything else he thought he’d need but left the cabinet open for easy access. The first thing he did after setting it all down was pick up a fire poker and stick it directly into the heart of the burning embers. He then picked up a towel and soaked it in water.

Turning back to Tommy’s prone form, Techno used the wet cloth to wipe away the muck that caked his skin and hair. As he cleaned it away, it became clear that there were two major wounds that needed to be treated — three, as Techno had very clearly heard Tommy’s head crack against the rocky ground of the cave.

Tommy’s head, his foot, and his shoulder.

Techno wished he could just unstopper a health potion, shove it down his brother’s throat, and be done with it. But consuming potions weren’t without their dangers, and with Tommy in as weak of a state as he was, drinking almost any potion would be just as deadly as leaving his wounds untreated.

So Techno would have to manually heal his brother.

Thankfully, that was something he had experience with. Over the many, many wars and battles he’d participated in, where potions would often be used up within a few hours and any injuries sustained after that would need to be treated by hand, Techno had become rather adept at performing hasty, impromptu medical procedures. 

Techno had treated wounds far worse than Tommy’s, and with far less equipment too.

Walking back to the pile of equipment, Techno reached in and withdrew a bottle filled with a thick, silvery liquid. 

It was an anaesthetic, the most powerful anaesthetic that he knew of. It dulled the nerves of the drinker and induced an unconscious state. It was a potion that was brewed specifically as to be safe to use on weak, injured people, as that’s what it was for — patients whose pain needed to be dulled and who needed to be unconscious while undergoing a medical procedure. And patients like that often weren’t in a very good condition.

He soaked a cloth in the potion and placed it inside Tommy’s mouth, knowing that trying to just force the liquid down his throat would likely do more harm than good.

Rather than wait for the effect of the potion to take hold, Techno began to treat the least severe of Tommy’s wounds — his head. He gingerly felt at the back of Tommy’s skull, trying to find where the point of impact was.

The bump he found was, thankfully, quite small, though when Techno pulled his fingers back they were sticky with blood. There wasn’t much he could do with a wound like this but bandage it and let it heal on its own, so that’s what Techno did.

Once the head wound was treated, he removed the cloth from Tommy’s mouth — now that he was under the anaesthesia, and obstructions in his mouth needed to be avoided — and turned to his leg.

▷The first thing he did was cut away at the singed pants Tommy wore, making the cut a bit above knee-height. Had he not had more pressing matters to attend to, Techno would have wondered over the fact that Tommy’s clothing was singed — as though he’d been standing too close to an explosion. As it was, however, Techno’s undivided attention was on treating his brother’s wounds.

He turned his gaze to the foot itself. It was bare but for a piece of wool messily wrapped around it, but Techno could tell, even before seeing the entire thing, that it was going to be bad.

Techno picked at the rough dressing until he found its end, and gently began to unwrap it. When he got to the final layer, the part that was actually touching the skin, he found that it was stuck to something and that he couldn’t remove the rest of the wool without exerting more force.

Instead of pulling harder and potentially causing more damage to the foot Techno could already tell would be difficult to save, he reached for a pair of scissors and began carefully cutting at the dressing.

The first part that became visible were five shrivelled, blackened toes. Techno winced but continued cutting away the wool. As more of the skin was exposed, Techno saw that all of it was just as blackened and dead.

The worst part of the severity of the frostbite was that it meant it couldn’t be healed using potions. Even though Tommy was in no state to ingest any potions, they could still be applied to wounds to stimulate the tissues and the blood, which massively sped up the healing process. 

The tissue of Tommy’s foot was all dead, though. There was nothing _for_ potions to stimulate.

Techno grit his teeth but continued to cut at the wool. Even though his hope would likely turn out to be useless, he didn’t allow himself to give up. 

When he got to the sole of Tommy’s foot, that part that had been stuck in the first place, he slowed down, cutting extremely close to the skin to try to get as much rid of as much of the wool as possible.

Maybe there would be _something_ that would let Techno save the foot. Some bit of living tissue he’d be able to use a healing potion on.

As he removed the rest of the excess wool, however, he realised something that made his stomach turn. The bandage wasn’t stuck to Tommy’s skin. It was stuck _inside_ it.

The foot’s sole had a wide, gaping hole in it, as though the flesh and muscle there had been burnt away, and the fluid that had leaked from the wound had soaked into the wool and made it stick to the tissues inside.

There was no way this was going to be saved.

As much as he hated it, Techno knew what he had to do now. There was no point in delaying it or dragging it out.

He turned, grabbed a tourniquet from his pile of medical supplies, and wrapped it around Tommy’s right calf, pulling it as tightly as he could manage.

After that, he turned from Tommy and picked up one of the healing potions he’d set down. He unstoppered it, poured its contents into a small bowl, and dropped a wad of bandages into the bright pink liquid.

There was one last thing he needed. If it hadn’t been for Phil’s insistence that Techno fully stock his first-aid cabinet, he would never have had this tool.

Techno picked up a gigli saw.

The flexible but strong blade of the saw, paired with its serrated edge, possessed the ability to easily cut through bone. It was exactly what Techno needed for what he was about to do.

Techno allowed himself a moment’s pause, clenching his eyes shut, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, steeling himself. He opened his eyes and moved to a position behind Tommy’s foot. He leaned over the leg and set the saw blade against the skin of his shin, below the tourniquet.

Techno pushed down and began pulling the blade left and right, left and right, again and again, sawing through skin and muscle and bone until he had cut right through the leg. He grimaced as he pulled back the bloody blade, picking up the amputated foot and setting it to the side.

The tight tourniquet meant that very little blood flowed from the stump of Tommy’s lower leg. Techno picked up the bandages from the bowl they’d been in and used them to dress the wound, knowing that the healing properties of the potion he had soaked them in would allow the wound to heal quickly and cleanly without the use of sutures.

As much as Techno wanted to give himself a respite after that grisly procedure, he knew that there was one more wound he needed to look after. He placed another roll of bandages into the bowl of healing potions and turned to Tommy’s shoulder.

The inflamed area around the shoulder wound was an even brighter red than the rest of his flushed, feverish skin. Techno carefully cut away the tattered sleeve of Tommy’s shirt and wrinkled his nose as the festering wound came into view.

The skin around the edges of the wound was stained a purplish-red and was raised, seeming to stretch over something lodged in Tommy’s shoulder. Techno grimaced as he prodded the wound gently, trying to get a feel for what exactly was going on. He felt something shift inside the shoulder.

There was a foreign body under Tommy’s skin, and the flesh had healed over it. Techno wondered how long it must have been sitting there for it to heal like that.

Before he began treating the wound, Techno turned and picked the poker from the fire, setting it by the impromptu operation table and ensuring that its red-hot tip was far away from any flammable materials.

The first step he needed to take here was obvious.

Techno picked up a cloth and doused it with antiseptic, before slowly spreading it around the affected area. After he was satisfied that it was suitably sterilised, he picked up a scalpel.

He set the edge of the blade against the raised skin and made a clean incision, cutting right across the raised area. Foul-smelling discharge spurted out of the infected wound and the raised skin quickly became a gaping wound, wide enough for Techno to see what the foreign body was.

Buried deep inside the muscle of Tommy’s shoulder was a dark, bloody arrowhead. Its edges had vicious, serrated barbs that were hooked onto the tissue and that Techno knew could make pulling it out a difficult, finicky process.

Techno could tell just from looking at it that the infection had set in a while ago. The tissue the arrow was buried in was a brownish-white colour, and even though the wound was wide open, no blood leaked from its walls. It had undergone necrosis.

At least that meant that Techno wouldn’t need to worry about further damaging the tissue.

He picked up a pair of surgical pliers and dug them into Tommy’s shoulder. He used them to grab the arrowhead and then, heedless of how the barbs tore through the dead tissue, pulled it out in one harsh movement. 

Once that was done, he set down the pliers and once again picked up the scalpel. What he needed to do was debride the wound, excise the necrotic tissue.

Techno carefully cut at the walls of the wound until it began to bleed — a sign that he’d reached living tissue. He placed the scalpel aside, turned, and picked up the fire poker.

Gritting his teeth together, Techno reached forward and pressed the red-hot tip to the wound. His cabin was filled with a loud sizzling and the smell of burning flesh as the wound was cauterised.

Techno set the poker down and picked the second wad of bandages from the bowl of health potion. He wrapped them tightly around Tommy’s shoulder and tied it off with a simple but secure knot.◁

After Techno finished, he allowed his shoulders to slump and his arms to fall to his sides. He pulled off the gloves he wore, now coated in blood and pus, and dropped them into the bin. Now that he was done, the single-minded concentration that had possessed him throughout the procedure was finally fading and Techno was left with a bone-deep weariness. He was exhausted. His arms shook slightly as he slid them under Tommy’s prone form and carried him upstairs.

He lay him gently onto his bed but refrained from putting any coverings on him. As much as Techno wanted to cocoon his brother in furs and blankets, comfort and warmth, Tommy still burned bright with fever. Extra layers would do far more harm than good.

Techno returned downstairs, filled a bowl to the brim with tepid water, and carried it to Tommy’s bedside. He picked up a cloth, soaked it in the water, and then lay it across his flushed forehead.

He sat back with a sigh. He’d done all he could to help Tommy’s recovery, but there was still so much wrong with his brother, and, as much as Techno hated to admit it, all of it was out of his control.

He could help keep him comfortable in his feverish state, change his dressings every day, ensure that he kept hydrated and clean, but ultimately Tommy’s survival was in his own hands now. 

_You did well,_ whispered the voices, sounding comforting and soft. They’d remained quiet throughout the procedure, understanding that Techno couldn’t afford to be distracted as he treated Tommy’s wounds, but they were back now, muttering reassurances in gentle tones.

Techno smiled bitterly.

Maybe that was true. Maybe the voices were right.

But he still hated himself for not being able to do more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey guys, you know how in the streams Tommy has a foot he’s trying to sell—  
> Also, as a teenager who has never seen, let alone treated, any injuries of the severity of the ones here, there are probably many inaccuracies this chapter. If you’re someone who knows a thing or two about medical stuff and did notice any of these, feel free to let me know (though I’m not promising that I’ll actually edit it lmao)
> 
> WE GOT SOME POGASS [FANART](https://twitter.com/sugarfur2/status/1348174977275752448?s=21) BY SUGARFUR OF TOMMY’S FOOT GETTING DELETED (it’s not graphic — it’s more like just before the amputation actually starts)
> 
> SUMMARY:  
> Techno jumps into the cave and brings Tommy into the cabin  
> He recognises that Tommy has the symptoms on pneumonia  
> He notices that Tommy’s foot and shoulder are the areas that are both horribly wounded and that he’s gonna have to treat them  
> (The warning starts here)  
> He treats the frostbitten foot first. He needs to amputate it  
> He then pulls the arrow out of Tommy’s shoulder, which is very badly infected, debrides and cauterises the wound, and then dresses it  
> (The warning ends here)  
> He brings Tommy upstairs and lays a wet cloth on his forehead to help treat the fever Tommy has


	8. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect some medical inaccuracies this chapter, I guess? Nothing graphic, though

Days passed.

Tommy remained unconscious.

Techno spent each day sitting by Tommy’s bedside, doing nothing but keeping a hawk-like watch on his brother’s comatose form. Techno had maneuvered him into the recovery position, to stop him from choking on anything and to help keep his airway clear each time fell into a fit of hacking coughs. 

The only times he left were, during the first day, when he’d gone to find a pair of clothes to change Tommy into, and for breaks to grab himself food and water — though he always returned upstairs before he actually started eating.

The only thing he did as the hours passed and his brother’s state remained unchanging were the methodical acts of placing an ice chip in Tommy’s mouth, keeping an eye out for when it melted, and then replacing it with another — one of the few safe ways to hydrate a comatose patient; of, every half hour, replacing the wet cloth on Tommy’s forehead with a new one; and of, every morning, listening to Tommy’s breathing for any hint that his pneumonia may have gotten any worse, wiping him down in an effort to keep him at least _somewhat_ clean, and redressing the wounds on his shoulder and the stump of his leg.

It was all Techno could do.

It was all Techno could do, and he _hated_ it.

He hated the feeling of helplessness that came with how little his actions seemed to do. He hated the fact that, despite all his best efforts, Tommy’s state only seemed to be worsening. He hated the fact that he had no real way of giving Tommy the nutrition he was in such dire need of. 

He hated the fact that Phil _still hadn’t come home_.

After they’d built the cabin together, Techno and Phil had set up a complex system of redstone and enchantments that allowed them to send messages to each other. It had been difficult, and it was only able to communicate very small messages, but it was beyond helpful for both of them.

The day he’d returned home and found Tommy unconscious under his base, Techno had sent a message to Phil, urgently requesting that he come back to Techno’s cabin.

Phil hadn’t responded.

He hadn’t come.

Techno wished he could just force-feed Tommy a health potion and that it would make everything better. But in his current state the chance he’d survive it was slim. It wasn’t his wounds, of course — if being wounded meant that health potions were too dangerous to be used, well, then health potions would be rendered rather useless. Besides, his wounds were healing quite nicely — the infection in his shoulder was fading quickly, and the potion he soaked the bandages in was promoting the growth of the new skin on Tommy’s calf. 

No, it wasn’t the wounds that stopped Techno from using potions, and it wasn’t the wounds that needed a potion to heal them. It was the malnourishment, the lack of nutrition and energy that Tommy had. Because while applying potions to the skin was safe enough to do in his state, consuming them definitely wasn’t.

The magic behind the workings of a potion varied on how it was being used, but, when speaking of in terms of ingesting them, there were four very distinct things that they needed to work effectively.

Power, magic, effect, and soul.

The power came from the blaze powder used in the brewing of all potions. The burning energy of blazes was contained within their rods, and the potions that were created using the crushed up powder were infused with that same blazing, raw energy. It was this that gave potions the ability to be used as potions — that is, to be used via ingestion — and not just a magic item.

The magic, with the one exception of potions of weakness, came from nether warts. When mixed with the magic of nether warts, even the most mundane of ingredients could be brewed into powerful potions. The science behind it had not yet been discovered, but that didn’t stop people from harnessing it. 

The effect of the potion, of course, came from the ingredients used to brew them. Sugar, for example, due to the energy contained within it, created potions of swiftness. Magma cream, due to the nature of the creature it came from, created potions of fire resistance.

The soul, as made rather obvious by the name, came from the consumer themselves. When someone drinks a potion, the power of the blaze is what spreads the effect throughout their body. The consumer’s own energy, however, is what expels the power that remains once the magic has taken effect. If the drinker lacks energy when they drink a potion, the power will remain in their system.

Techno had seen numerous people die due to drinking a potion while their bodies lacked the energy to expel the leftover power. It hadn’t been pretty.

To put it simply, human bodies weren’t built to contain the fiery power of blazes.

So, yeah, giving Tommy potions in his current state would be a very inadvisable course of action.

Which was another thing Techno hated.

He should make a list.

With each day that passed, Techno’s concern, which had started as a little bubble in his chest, expanded and grew until it began to choke him. Tommy was dying, Phil was missing, and Wilbur... well, he had no idea what Wilbur was doing.

And there was nothing he could do but wait.

Techno had, numerous times, taken the time to wonder over what his brother had been doing at his house in the first place. Why, out of everywhere he could have gone, he had come _here_. Because, while Techno had renounced his violent ways, strove to become a better person, and had no problem helping and caring for his brother, Tommy didn’t know that. The last time they’d interacted, after all, had been when Techno had screamed at him to die like a hero and then summoned a pair of withers to destroy his country.

Techno winced slightly at the memory. Yeah, that probably hadn’t left a very good impression.

When Phil had told him that Tubbo had exiled Tommy, Techno had had to hold himself back from doing something he’d later come to regret. 

He had been right. Of course he had been right. He’d warned Tommy, warned L’Manberg, and yet they’d still fallen prey to the intrinsic evils of government.

And as much as Techno had wanted to drop everything to go find his brother, help him in his exile, perhaps even bring him back to his cabin, he’d never been able to get the information he needed to find him. Phil, his only informant into the affairs of L’Manberg, wasn’t privy to Tommy’s location, and so neither was Techno.

But now his brother had found him. Now, Techno could protect him. And, as soon as Tommy woke, he would find out who had put his brother in the state he’d been in when he’d found him. And they would pay.

The voices cheered at the prospect.

On the third day of Tommy’s coma (that Techno resolutely told himself was due to him giving Tommy too much anaesthetic and not because his illness was getting worse), Techno had decided to begin something productive, to both busy his idle hands and to stave off the worry and panic that rose with each day that Tommy’s condition didn’t improve. He was by no means a prosthetist, and woodwork was something he was, at the very best, mediocre at, but he needed _something_ to do with his hands and mind as he sat by Tommy’s bedside.

Once his brother woke up, he would need a prosthetic.

Techno knew that anything he created now would ultimately be a temporary fit, replaced later when he had the time and resources to craft something intricate and suitable for long-term use. Maybe he’d even be able to get Phil’s help, once he found him. His father had always been good at designing machines and contraptions.

But whittling away at logs of wood, trying to find a way to shape them so that they would function well as a prosthetic, gave Techno something to do, filled the sleepless nights he spent sitting next to Tommy. 

That, in addition to the murmuring voices in his head, were the only things that kept him sane.

He was, of course, no less attentive to Tommy’s condition, and would often set aside his project to perform one of the actions needed to keep his brother as healthy and comfortable as he could. But it certainly did make the time pass quicker.

Once four days had passed and Techno still hadn’t allowed himself a moment’s rest, the voices began to grow concerned.

 _Rest,_ they whispered. _Sleep, sleep, Technosleep._

Techno pushed them aside, dismissed their concerns with a wave and a grunt, but deep down, he knew they were right.

He couldn’t care for Tommy if he couldn't keep his own eyes open.

He could feel his eyelids drooping more with every hour that passed and could tell that his thoughts were slowing and becoming less and less clear and coherent. As a precaution, in case he did fall asleep and something happened to Tommy while he was resting, Techno pressed a small item into his brother’s hand and wrapped his fingers tightly around it. 

It was one of Techno’s most valuable items, something he’d acquired mere days prior. The magic it contained was vile and taboo, and if used too often could have disastrous consequences to the user and their state of mind. And, as much as he hated the idea of such forbidden magic being used on his brother, magic was something that could fade. A final death wasn’t.

And Techno would do anything to keep his family alive.

It was on the fifth day that Techno’s head dropped to his chest, the wood he’d been whittling away at dropped to the floor, and he finally fell asleep.

Rather coincidentally, it was also on the fifth day that Tommy awoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, writing this chapter while watching Techno’s stream:  
> Techno: family!sbi isn’t real  
> Me, tears in my eyes, hugging the fic to my chest: t- take that back
> 
> WE GOT SOME EPIC [FANART](https://twitter.com/sugarfur2/status/1350868497283346434?s=20) BY SUGARFUR, OF TECHNO SITTING BY TOMMY’S BEDSIDE  
> ELIZABETH DREW [ANOTHER](https://twitter.com/theelqx/status/1368670942113767428?s=21), ALSO OF TECHNO’S WORRIED HOVERING


	9. Fear

To Tommy, waking felt like he was wading through a pool of warm, thick water. He was weighed down, his limbs were heavy and his entire body was sticky with sweat and altogether far too hot.

Waking was also, however, a rather pleasant surprise, as it hadn’t been something Tommy had ever expected to do again.

The surface below him was soft and squishy and a very sharp contrast to the hard, rocky ground he’d been lying on for days before. Tommy groaned softly and rolled onto his side, and the lack of pain that shot through his shoulder was another unexpected yet no less welcome surprise.

This was just a good day for him, he supposed.

Not that everything was well. Tommy felt warm, too warm, and his entire body was covered in an uncomfortable sheen of sweat. His throat was dry and parched, his head pounded with a sharp headache, and his chest ached with a deep-seated pain. Each time he inhaled too deeply it rattled in his chest and felt as though there was a knife tearing through his lungs.

Not such a good day, then. But still better than the state he’d been in before.

Tommy’s eyelids were leaden and gummy, and opening them was quite the process. When he finally managed to force them, it took a few moments before the world came into focus.

The first thing Tommy saw was the dishevelled, slumbering form of Technoblade, seated at a nearby chair, his head dropped down against his chest.

Any semblance of rational thought fled his mind in an instant.

His eyes were wide as he lurched upright, keeping his gaze trained solely on his brother. Panic, fear, and dread sunk their hooks into Tommy’s mind and dragged him into a state where his only thought was the raw, primeval urge to _run_.

Something small and golden fell out of Tommy’s hand and clattered onto the floor as he pushed himself up and out of bed. He didn’t care.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, staggered to his feet, and only just managed to stifle a cry as something — Tommy didn’t know what — went wrong and he was sent crashing to the hard wooden ground.

Tommy lay there, gasping for breath, keeping his wide, terrified eyes trained on Techno. He couldn’t stop. He needed to getaway. He needed to run and hide and get far away from the house before his brother woke.

Tommy grit his teeth, set his hands firmly against the ground, and pushed himself to his knees with trembling arms. His shoulder twinged uncomfortably.

He raised his knee and set his left leg against the ground, then rose to his right foot.

Once again, Tommy fell to the ground.

This time, he realised why.

His breaths came out in shallow, choked, hiccuping sobs as he stared in horror down at the stump of his right calf. Tommy scrambled across the floor until his back slammed against the wall and he couldn’t move any further, as though it would somehow let him get away from his own amputated limb.

_No, no, what the fuck, this can’t be real._

Reaching out unthinkingly, Tommy began to tear at the dressing of the wound, ripping the bandages away until the tender new flesh of the stump of his calf was revealed. He felt sick.

Trembling fingers prodded at the pink skin. It felt strange and weird and _wrong_ on so many levels. Without conscious thought, Tommy’s fingers started digging into the skin, unheeding of the way his jagged fingernails pierced through the flesh and warm, sticky blood began pouring from the crescent-shaped cuts. Maybe the pain would wake him from this nightmare.

Tommy’s head snapped up at the sound of a quiet snort, and his face paled as he saw Techno shifting slightly in his sleep.

He was waking up.

Tommy, upon realising the danger he was in, was once again consumed by the all-encompassing need to _run_. It pushed aside the horror he felt, almost made him forget about the leg entirely, because all he needed to do now was _get away_. He pushed himself to his knees and began crawling desperately across the floor.

He reached the ladder shaft that led to Techno’s storage room and stared down at it blankly. He could use the resources down there — the potions and weapons and armour — to fight Techno off. But first, he’d need to get down.

That… wasn’t going to be easy.

Tommy glanced back to see that Techno was truly stirring now. He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t take this slowly. He had to go.

(If he had spared another moment to look around, he would’ve noticed the crudely fashioned staircase that led down to the storage room. But he didn’t, and so, to him, the only way down was by climbing.)

Tommy set his left foot against one of the rungs and gripped the ladder tightly. He hopped down one rung, moved his hands down, and then repeated the process. His arms, weak from malnourishment and disuse, shook as they held his body weight, and by the time he reached the last rung, he was gasping for breath and wincing as each sharp inhale sent a jagged spike of pain through his chest.

Tommy clung tightly to the ladder as he set his left foot against the ground, struggling to keep his balance and panicking because he needed to move faster, he couldn’t afford to slow down, he had to _go,_ he had to _run, he_ had to _move_.

Tommy cried out again as he wasn’t able to keep his balance and he was, once again, sent crashing down. The ground here was far less forgiving than upstairs — made of stone rather than wooden planks — and it scraped against his knees, leaving them raw and stinging and bleeding.

Tommy couldn’t afford to care.

He clamped a shaking hand over his mouth, his eyes wide, and strained his ears for any sounds from upstairs. That cry had been too loud, far too loud. Techno was going to wake up and see him missing and hunt him down and—

“Tommy?”

The voice was quiet and slow and slurred slightly by sleep, but to Tommy it was like a deafening, suffocating tidal wave. His breathing sped up further, his heart rate picked up, his entire body screamed at him to do the only thing he could think of — get to the chests and arm himself.

Tommy crawled across the stone bricks, towards the chests that lined the wall, ignoring the way the rough ground tore at his skin. Techno repeated his name and this time his voice came out in a shout.

Tommy fumbled to unlatch one of the chests, the one that contained potions, and his adrenaline and fear and panic made it take far longer than it should have. He reached in and grabbed a bottle containing a shimmering grey potion — invisibility — before scrambling back into the corner of the room.

When he drank the potion, instead of feeling the usual, comforting warmth that came from a potion’s intrinsic nether magic, he felt like he was _burning_. The invisibility effect that spread over his skin, hiding him from any outside observers, was accompanied by a flaming heat that blazed through his body, stealing the breath from his lungs and making his heart shudder and slow in his chest.

The potion bottle slipped from numb fingers.

He felt, somehow, even worse than he had before.

But the invisibility came into use as, not a second after he drank the potion, Techno leapt down from the floor above. “Tommy!” he shouted, eyes darting around the storage room.

Had Tommy been any sort of a lucid state of mind, he would’ve recognised that the edge he heard in Techno’s voice was that of panic. He would’ve recognised the spark in Techno’s wide eyes to be that of worry. But as he was now, all Tommy saw was a hunter, a warrior, the violent anarchist that had murdered his best friend, summoned withers over his nation, and wanted him dead.

He clamped a hand over his mouth and nose in an attempt to mask his ragged, gasping breaths. Tears of terror leaked from his eyes as he watched Techno’s gaze land on the trail of blood that had come from his scraped knees.

Tommy cringed back into the wall, drawing his knees to his chest and holding his breath. He was fucked. He was so, so fucked. He was going to be found and killed and that would be his last life gone. Why had he taken residence in Techno’s house in the first place? Why had he thought it would be a good idea? Ever since they were young, Techno had lusted for violence, been driven by a craving for blood and conflict. Tommy knew this, and yet he’d still dared to invade his house, to steal his items.

Freezing would likely have been a kinder death than whatever Techno would do to him.

Techno’s eyes followed the bloody trail until they rested on the empty potion bottle and the haze of visible magic that came from potions — unnoticeable unless one was actively looking for it.

Techno, of course, was actively looking for it. And so he was staring directly at the spot where Tommy was huddled. And, though he couldn’t see it, Tommy was staring back at him with wide, terrified eyes.

“You didn’t,” Techno said, his voice coming out as little more than a horrified whisper. Then, rather abruptly, he pulled out a pickaxe and mined the block underneath him.

Tommy blinked as Techno dropped into the basement he knew was nestled below the house.

He didn’t know what sort of a game Techno was playing at, but he could use it to his advantage. Drawing up what little energy he had left, Tommy dragged himself back over to the chests and pulled open the one he’d previously deposited the stolen valuables into.

The only thing he was able to pull out before Techno climbed back out of the basement was the enchanted diamond sword.

Tommy turned back to Techno, holding the sword defensively in front of him with shaking arms. There was no point in trying to preserve the illusion of being invisible, as Techno already knew he was in the room and could easily track his exact location. Any plan of staying hidden had been thrown out of the window as soon as he’d left a streak of blood leading directly to where he was. 

His only chance of survival — of which he knew that was none at all, Tommy didn’t know why he was trying — was to somehow get past his brother, escape into the snowy wasteland beyond, and then manage to not die before finding another shelter

He wouldn’t even be able to do the first step.

Even in peak shape, Tommy would never be able to get past Techno. Techno, the ruthless warrior, the renowned fighter, the feared Blood God. Techno, who wore fully enchanted netherite armour and wielded a fully enchanted netherite sword. Techno, who was holding… a bucket of milk?

Tommy swallowed heavily as Techno began approaching him, heedless of the sword he held. To be fair, the weapon — trembling sharply, barely suspended above the ground — really didn’t cut a very imposing sight.

“S- stay back,” Tommy warned, his voice shaking and hoarse with disuse.

That was another thing Techno ignored.

When Techno got within striking distance, Tommy raised the sword and begun to swing it down in a weak, slow arc—

And cried out in fear as his wrist was grabbed in a crushing hold and twisted to the side — enough that he was forced to drop the sword but not to do any damage. The fact that, even in his invisible state, Techno knew exactly where Tommy’s wrist was, went to show just how perceptive he was.

Techno dropped let go of the arm and kicked the sword, sending it skittering across the floor and out of Tommy’s reach.

There was only one other thing Tommy could think to do. It was something that had stopped Dream from killing him, if only just, though he didn’t imagine it would be very effective on Techno.

He began begging for his life.

Words tumbled from Tommy’s mouth in an unrelenting tide. His voice was choked with tears and fear and disuse, and each word seemed to grate against his raw throat, but he pushed on.

“Please, Techno, d- don’t kill me. I- I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I never should have taken your stuff. I- I’m sorry. I- I know you hate me, but please, just let me go. I’ll never come back. Y- you won’t ever see me again. You can take away all my things before I go. But please, l- let me—”

Tommy cut himself off with a sharp, fearful inhale as Techno dropped to a knee before him. He clenched his eyes shut. It was all over now. He had known that begging would never work on Techno. 

Techno held out the bucket of milk. “Drink,” he said sharply. 

Though he couldn’t see it, Tommy was frozen, staring at the bucket in confusion and shock.

“I swear to god, Tommy, drink the milk or you are going to fucking die.”

Tommy, misunderstanding the intent behind the words, flinched back into the wall. He reached out shakily with a pair of invisible hands, grabbed the bucket, took a few gulps of it, before breaking into a fit of hacking coughs that pulled at his lungs and left him gasping for breath.

As the invisibility faded, so too did the blazing heat that had been eating away at Tommy’s chest since he’d drunk the potion. He could still feel the heat, the burning, but the milk had taken off the edge.

Techno let out a sigh of relief as Tommy shimmered back into visibility. “Tommy,” he breathed out, beginning reaching a hand out but freezing as Tommy flinched back fearfully. He stared at his brother, horrified over how much of a _shell_ of his former self he’d become. His next words weren't addressing Tommy's physical state. “What happened to you?”

“I’m s- sorry,” Tommy whispered brokenly. He began pushing himself up against the wall. “I- I’m so sorry. I- I’ll get out of your house now.”

“Tommy,” Techno said firmly, resting a hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing. Tommy stiffened under the touch. “You’re not going anywhere. You don’t _need_ to go anywhere. I’m not going to throw you out. I’m not going to— I’m not going to _kill_ you.”

Tommy stared up at him disbelievingly. “Y- you’re not?`

“I promise,” Techno said. He reached out his arms again, slower this time, ready to stop instantly if Tommy reacted badly. “Now c’mon, we need to get you back upstairs. I’m sure you’ve done more damage to yourself than you know.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

Techno levelled a deadpan stare at him. “Yes, Tommy,” he said, slipping his arms under the teen’s legs and shoulders, “you did.”

Tommy sucked in a sharp breath as Techno gently lifted him from the ground.

“Sorry,” Techno muttered as he made his way over to the staircase he’d hewn days before. He moved slowly as he climbed the stairs, making sure not to jostle his injured brother.

By the time he reached the top, some of the palpable tension had bled away and Tommy had relaxed into his arms.

Tommy groaned as Techno gently lay him on the bed. “Am I going to be okay?” he whispered.

“Yes, you are. I’m going to make sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided on a whim to make a [discord server](https://discord.gg/p7hCE9wxKP)! feel free to join if you wanna talk more to me or other likeminded mcyt fans!!
> 
> ALSO ALSO THIS CHAPTER HAS SOME AMAZING [FANART](https://twitter.com/_megaronii_/status/1341128230435254275?s=21), BY MEGARONII, OF TECHNO STARING DOWN AT TOMMY AFTER HE’S HAD THE MILK  
> AND NOW IT HAS [MORE](https://twitter.com/thinker1091/status/1341492932738617346?s=21) BY THINKER, OF TECHNO HOLDING OUT THE BUCKET TO A TERRIFIED TOMMY!  
> WE GOT A [THIRD](https://twitter.com/hiobowy/status/1342653275296976898?s=21) BY KURO, OF TOMMY MISINTERPRETING TECHNO’S WORDS AND SEEING DREAM INSTEAD OF HIM!!  
> [ANOTHER](https://twitter.com/sugarfur2/status/1357314733460889601?s=21) BY SUGARFUR, OF TOMMY DRINKING THE POTION!!
> 
> CHECK THEM ALL OUT AND GIVE THE ARTISTS SOME LOVE


	10. Prisoner

Phil woke sharply as he was doused in a bucket of cold water.

He spluttered ungracefully, eyes snapping open, jerking up from his slumped over position. His head pounded with an unrelenting ache and he found, when he reached up to massage at his temples, that his hands were restrained, weighed down by heavy manacles that were bolted to the ground.

Oh.

Phil looked up.

Before him stood Quackity, holding the now-empty bucket, a satisfied smirk on his face. Further back stood Tubbo, who wrung his hands anxiously, Fundy, who avoided his gaze, and Ranboo, who looked on with regretful eyes.

Well, this was great.

“Philza! It’s great to have you back in the land of the living.” Quackity set the bucket down and took a step back. “Tubbo, if you will.”

Tubbo stepped forward and cleared his throat. He shot a glance at Quackity, who levelled him with a cold stare. Tubbo swallowed nervously and turned back to Phil. The interaction was short and barely noticeable, but it rubbed Phil the wrong way. 

Tubbo spoke. “You, Philza Watson, are under arrest. After obstructing justice by refusing to divulge the location of a known fugitive, you were put under house arrest. To which you responded by fighting back, assaulting me, the president, and threatening my life to allow you to continue to harbour said fugitive.”

Phil squinted. “I’m not hearing any mention of a trial?”

Tubbo opened his mouth to speak but was waved off by Quackity. “Oh, you’re not getting one. Tubbo’s the president, after all. He can do what he likes.”

The dismissiveness with which they treated procedure and, well, the _law_ , made Phil’s stomach churn uncomfortably. He’d seen this side of L’Manberg before, what with Tubbo’s execution, Tommy’s exile, and now his own incarceration. Their legal system was incredibly backwards — no rules, no real procedure holding back the people in power from doing whatever it was that they wanted. They could execute, exile, and imprison people at their whim, and there was nothing, no one, that could stop them. 

That… didn’t bode too well for Phil.

He glared up at Quackity through his sopping wet hair, not allowing his misgivings to shine through. “So why am I not in a cell already?”

Quackity barked out a laugh. “There’s something we need to do first, Phil.” He turned and beckoned Ranboo over. The enderman hybrid stepped forward, holding some sort of clamps. Quackity grinned at Phil. “Extend your wings.”

Phil’s heart stuttered to a stop. He stared at Quackity for a long moment, his eyes wide, before he regained enough of his wits to utter an unconvincing, “My what?”

“Your wings, Phil. Yes, we know about them. Don’t make this hard for yourself.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Phil said resolutely. His head, however, was spinning. How did they know? How did they know that he was a hybrid, that he had wings? It was a fact that he kept under tight, tight wraps. He could probably count the number of people he’d told on one hand.

But these four people knew.

_How did they know?_

“Don’t play dumb, Philza. It won’t end well for you. We’ve gone the hard way before, and we’ll do it again if we need to.”

Phil exhaled sharply through his teeth. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it. But how do you know about them?”

“Let’s just say that the person who informed us of your connection to Technoblade also knew _quite_ a lot about you,” Quackity said, stepping forward. He nodded back to Ranboo and the clamps he held. “They also supplied us with these.”

It dawned on Phil what exactly the clamps were going to be used for, and he couldn’t quite keep his mounting dread at bay. This was… _really_ not good. To an avian hybrid, having their wings restrained was something to be avoided at any cost, a possibility they all abhorred with a primeval, instinctive passion. Their wings were, after all, the very heart of their existence, the source of their hybrid power, and what allowed them to soar freely through the skies.

He would be willing to bet that the clamps were enchanted, too. Engraved with runes and imbued with magic that would restrain his hybrid power. His enhanced strength and speed and senses — things that sat passively while his wings were folded away but activated when they were extended. Those powers would all be locked away as soon as the clamps were placed over his wings.

The urge to do _something_ to escape the possibility of his wings being chained up was primal and visceral, and also something that Phil had to resist.

He grit his teeth and prepared to extend his wings, but froze as Quackity pulled out a sword. He eyed the weapon warily. “You know,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice level, “I think I’d rather you put that away first.”

“Don’t worry,” Quackity said. “This is just insurance. I’ll only have to use it if you try anything. So, y’know, _don’t_.”

Phil swallowed heavily. The worrying thing was that he _had_ been considering fighting back. He’d thought that maybe he’d be able to knock Quackity and Ranboo down with a powerful blow from his wings, then use his hybrid-enhanced strength to break through the chains and take down Tubbo and Fundy — who were both just standing silently at the end of the room, watching the proceedings with wide eyes. Given, the fact that they were aware of his status as a hybrid meant that the chains around his wrists were probably reinforced against such strength, but the possibility had been there.

But these people knew too much, were altogether too far prepared. Phil really did _not_ like the look of Quackity’s wickedly sharp netherite blade.

The fact that they knew in the first place didn’t make any sense. All the precautions and measures he’d taken should have ensured that his secret stayed safe from _anyone_ , and yet someone had found out and told them. And the confusing thing was that Phil had no idea who it could’ve been — the only people he thought knew were those he’d trust with his life not to divulge his secret.

He allowed his wings to extend from his back slowly, carefully, not moving the limbs too quickly in case Quackity got a little too trigger-happy with his sword. He let out a sharp exhale as the power that came with them being extended washed over him, invigorating him and filling him with the urge to _resist_ and _fight_ and _escape_. But he couldn’t do that. He knew he couldn’t do that.

His wings shook slightly as he spread them out, the cramped muscles screeching in protest as they were finally stretched. He looked back and winced at the sorry state of his feathers — dull and bent and with more than a few broken shafts. They were in desperate need of a preen and a clean, something he knew he wouldn’t be able to give them.

“Fold them,” Quackity ordered.

Phil shot him a glare. “Give me a moment,” he ground out, trying to savour the time he had with his wings extended and unbound.

Quackity raised the sword. “ _Fold them_.”

Phil flinched back slightly and, rather regretfully, did as he was told. “Fuck you,” he muttered.

Quackity smiled unpleasantly. “Good. Now, Ranboo, if you will.”

Ranboo grimaced and walked around until he was standing behind Phil. He opened one of the clamps and, with Quackity’s help, hoisted it above Phil’s right wing. They brought the clamp down on the feathered limb.

Phil’s entire _being_ shuddered as the cold metal contacted his wing, the clamp’s enchantments making it shrink until it fit tightly around his primary feathers and held the wing shut. He could feel it rubbing against the limb’s sensitive flesh, feel its chilling magic seeping into the wing and putting a damper on his power. It felt vile and violating and so, so _wrong_ in every sense of the word.

Any sense of danger fled Phil’s mind in an instant as he was possessed by the desire to get the clamp _off_ and _gone_ so he never ever had to feel its revolting magic again. He thrashed in his chair, his unrestrained left wing flying out and hitting Ranboo square in the face, sending the enderman hybrid staggering back with a hand clutching his nose.

Phil twisted, and his enraged glare fell onto Fundy. Wilbur’s son. His grandson. The traitor. He wrenched his arms up, and the primal power of his adrenaline and fear meant that, even with the damper on his power and the reinforced strength of the chains, he was able to tear them from where they were driven into the ground.

Fundy paled dramatically, backing into the corner as Phil began advancing on him, his unrestrained wing spread out wide and flared up to create an even more imposing figure.

“Philza,” came Quackity’s voice, low and dangerous. Phil made to turn towards him, but froze as he felt the cold bite of metal where his back met his bound right wing. “Stop _right now_ , or I will not hesitate to cut off your fucking wing.”

Phil inhaled sharply, some sense returning to his fear-hazed mind. What the fuck was he doing?

He’d never succumbed to the more primal nature that all hybrids possessed, hidden deep within their minds. He’d come close a few times, sure, but he’d never been completely overwhelmed by it like he had been just then. It had been… _terrifying_ , having control of his actions pulled so far out of the reach of his rational mind. It wasn’t ever something he wanted to experience again.

His hands shook as he raised them in surrender.

“Good,” Quackity said, but he didn’t retract his sword. “Now, get back into the fucking chair.”

Phil took a few steps backwards until his knees hit the seat of the chair and he sat heavily.

“Ranboo?” Quackity glanced over to where Ranboo was leaning against the wall, clutching at his bloody nose. The enderman hybrid let out a little groan of acknowledgment. Quackity rolled his eyes. “Ok, then. Tubbo, if you’d like to do the honours?”

Tubbo stared at him with wide eyes. “M- me?”

“Yes, Tubbo,” Quackity said, his tone bordering on condescending. “You.”

The president stepped forward hesitantly and picked up the second clamp from where it lay discarded. Phil clenched his eyes shut, reaching up a hand to tangle it in his hair and try to hold back the dread that rose.

Tubbo unlatched the clamp and grunted slightly as he rose it above Phil’s trembling wing.

_No no no he can’t have it happen to his other wing, not again, not that horrible, horrible feeling, he can’t experience it again, no no no please—_

Phil let out a choked gasp as it dropped down and shrunk until it sat securely around his wing. Once again, the vile sensation swept through him — worse, this time, due to the fact that this second clamp sealed away the entirety of his power — but he made no reaction other than a powerful shudder.

The part of him that had thrown him into the feral state had been locked away along with everything else that made him a hybrid.

Philza wanted to cry.

His head was hung low as Quackity retracted his sword, reached up, and grabbed the two chains that hung from each clamp. The man connected them, reducing the mobility of Phil’s wings even further.

“Great!” Quackity said, clapping his hands together. “Now, Ranboo, if you’ll take him to his accommodations?”

Ranboo let out another groan but pushed himself off the wall. He pulled his hand back slightly, glanced at it to see that he’d successfully stopped his bleeding nose, then inclined his head slightly at Quackity.

Quackity, Tubbo and Fundy, their jobs done — though Phil didn’t really know what part the latter two had played — exited the room, leaving him alone with Ranboo.

“C’mon,” Ranboo said softly, looping an arm over Phil’s shoulders and heaving him to his feet. “Please don’t make this hard for me.”

“Ranboo, please,” Phil said, his head snapping up to stare right into his multi-colored eyes. He could see something in there, regret and remorse, that he knew he could use in his favour. “You can’t leave me like this. I know we don’t know each other well, but you’re a hybrid too. You can’t— you can’t imagine how bad this is. Just think about how it would feel if your power was locked away, restrained, and someone put a binding on your Pearl that took away your ability to teleport.”

Something shifted abruptly in Ranboo’s eyes and he shoved Phil forward, sending him staggering down one of the dark corridors that branched off from the room they were in. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, his voice was hard and lined with an underlying bitterness.

And that was the end of that.

Phil glanced around uneasily as Ranboo, whose empathetic demeanour had left and been replaced by something cold and harsh, led him down the stone corridor. Its walls were lined with cells of varying sizes, each containing a sparse array of rickety furniture.

Phil’s stomach churned. All the time he’d spent in L’Manberg, and he hadn’t even heard a _whisper_ of the existence of this prison.

Ranboo came to a stop outside one of the cells at the very end of the corridor and pulled a pair of keys from his pocket. He unlocked the door, pushed Phil inside, then stepped in after him.

Ranboo picked up one of the chains that hung from the clamp of Phil’s right wing, pulled it over to the wall, and hooked it to a metal loop. He repeated the process with a chain on the left wing, and then picked up a third, that was connected to the chain that joined the two clamps, and hooked it to a loop on the ceiling.

“Oh come on,” Phil groaned, staring, dismayed, at the three places the chains connected him to the rocky cell. “Surely that’s not necessary.”

Ranboo shrugged carelessly. “Not up to me, I’m afraid.”

With that, he turned, walked out of the cell, and locked the door behind him.

Philza was left alone.

-o-

With his wings restrained like they were, finding a comfortable way to sit was nearly impossible. Phil spent the first hour of his imprisonment pacing his cell, shifting around the meagre furniture it had, trying to distract himself from the nauseating sensation the clamps gave him and find a way to position them so that he could sit and not have _something_ pulling at his wings uncomfortably.

He failed.

Phil let out a frustrated groan from where he sat against the wall, his left wing being tugged slightly towards where the chain was hooked to the wall. He wouldn’t be surprised if the cell had been set up specifically so as to be like this. His wrists ached painfully, already slightly raw from where the manacles rubbed against his skin. After he’d broken their chain, in his bout of rage, no one had seen fit to unlatch them from his wrists. Phil leaned his head back until he was staring up at the rocky ceiling.

This was so fucking stupid. This godforsaken country with its backwards legal system and its corrupt government. There hadn’t been the faintest _mention_ of a trial, of any chance of probation or eventual freedom. His imprisonment, for all he knew, could be a lifelong sentence. 

He had never supported his son’s anarchist ideals, but _this_ is what governments were, what they did, maybe he should have considered it further. Maybe Techno was right about governments.

Maybe Wilbur had been right about this nation.

Phil was drawn from his thoughts as the heavy prison door creaked open and he heard light, hesitant footsteps echoing down the corridor.

He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the cell door, gritting his teeth as the chains halted him a few feet away from the bars. Even so, he was able to peer through them and into the dimly lit corridor outside. 

He couldn’t see anything, but the footsteps were still there, growing closer and closer until—

Tubbo came into view.

Phil sighed, backed away from the bars, and slid back into his previous position, sat against the wall of his cell. Whatever the president was here for probably had nothing to do with him. And if it did, he didn’t want to hear it.

He was only mildly surprised when Tubbo came to a stop outside his cell. Phil let out a low groan, closed his eyes, and resolved to ignore him.

About five minutes passed before Phil cracked his eyes open again. Tubbo was still standing there, staring at him, shifting from foot to foot and wringing his hands anxiously.

He’d been waiting there silently for five minutes.

“Alright,” Phil said finally. “I’ll bite. What do you want?”

Tubbo started slightly, as though not expecting to be asked a question. “Oh!” he said. “You’re awake!”

Phil snorted. “What, did you think I was asleep this whole time?”

“...you weren’t?”

Phil let out a long-suffering sigh. “No, Tubbo, I wasn’t. Now,” he shifted slightly from his seated position, “what the fuck do you want?”

“Ah, yeah,” Tubbo lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “I just wanted to say sorry for, uh, for all… that. I didn’t really want any of this to happen, y’know?”

Anger simmered below Phil’s skin. Did Tubbo really think that he could do _all of this_ to Phil and then what, offer a fucking apology? Make it all better? He levelled a glare at the president. “You didn’t want _what_ to happen, exactly? You didn’t want to break into my house? Imprison me? Chain up my wings? _Hunt down my son_?”

Tubbo flinched back, looking miserable. “N- no, that’s not it—”

Phil sneered at the kid. “Oh fuck off, Tubbo. If you’re looking for forgiveness, you’ve come to the wrong fucking place. You’re the president. If you didn’t want this to happen, _it wouldn’t have_.”

When Tubbo spoke, his voice trembled with unshed tears. “I swear, Phil. I- I thought they’d just put you under house arrest, or exile you — it’s not like you have any attachment to the county, anyway. I don’t know what they gain from keeping you here.”

Phil scoffed. “Oh sure. If that’s what you think, then why am I here?” He jabbed a finger at Tubbo, and the chain that hung from the cuff rattled quietly. “As I said — you’re the president. And in this godforsaken country, the president can do whatever the fuck they like. So why is it that what _you_ wanted isn’t what was put into action?”

“Quackity wouldn’t let me!” Tubbo burst out sharply, then his eyes widened in mortification and he clamped a horrified hand over his mouth. He let out a shaky laugh. “I- I mean—”

Phil’s brow furrowed, his mind flashing back to how much charge Quackity had taken in all the situations he’d seen the man in. “Quackity? What’s he got to do with this?”

Tubbo shook his head desperately. “Nothing, nothing, Quackity’s got nothing to do with this. You were right. I- I’m the one that wanted you imprisoned.” He took a step back. “I need to go now.”

“Tubbo, wait!” Phil shouted as Tubbo turned and fled down the corridor. He scrambled to his feet and pulled fruitlessly against the chains that held him to the wall. “Don’t go!”

Tubbo pulled open the prison door, threw one last wide-eyed glance back at him, then ducked out of the corridor.

Phil let out a groan. “Great job, Phil,” he muttered to himself, slinking back to his cell wall and leaning his head against it. “You really managed to fuck that one over.”

He tipped his head forward and sighed heavily, resigning himself to the deafening silence of his own thoughts. That interaction had gone horribly, and, though the thought of Tubbo’s stricken face sent a pang of guilt through his chest, it had also given him a lot to consider.

What exactly was going on behind the scenes of L’Manberg’s government?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prison Phil’s in is _not_ Sam’s prison, just thought I should make that clear
> 
> BOIS WE GOT [FANART](https://twitter.com/_megaronii_/status/1342043520543158278?s=21)!! ONCE AGAIN BY THE AMAZING MEG, THIS ONE’S OF PHIL BREAKING THROUGH THE CHAINS  
> WE GOT [MORE](https://macklemorestaco.tumblr.com/post/638623651635281920/i-drew-somethin-based-on-curseworms-fic-the), OF TUBBO VISITING PHIL, BY MICH!!  
> THERE’S [ANOTHER](https://twitter.com/sugarfur2/status/1363180455114268681?s=21), BY SUGARFUR, OF QUACKITY THREATENING TO CUT OFF PHIl’S WING
> 
> Also I made a discord server!! Join it [here](https://discord.gg/Rh38yZdX4T) if you’d like to, but keep in mind that it’s still a work in progress


	11. Trust

Phil’s sleep had been uneasy, to say the least — full of dreams of crushing chains and restrained wings and hunters going after his son. He woke with a gasp and shot up from his cell’s lumpy mattress, glancing around wildly for a moment before he regained his wits and calmed down slightly.

He took a deep breath, counted to three, and exhaled slowly.

He was ok.

Phil lay back down on the mattress and glared at the rocky walls of the cell. He had nothing to fill the silence, nothing to do but stew in his own thoughts. The hours crawled by at a sluggish pace, the only interruption being a tray of food that was shoved unceremoniously under the door of his cell. Phil stood and walked over to it, but didn’t end up touching it. He wasn’t hungry.

This time, he forewent lying on the mattress and instead sat back down onto the rough floor, leaning against the wall. He’d nearly managed to doze into another fitful sleep when he once again heard someone enter the prison. He glanced up to see, to his surprise, that Tubbo was standing outside his cell.

He hadn’t expected the kid to return, not after yesterday.

Tubbo swallowed. “I shouldn’t be here,” he blurted out, then flushed slightly in embarrassment. 

Phil cocked his head to the side but didn’t dare move from where he was seated at the back of his cell, not wanting a repeat of the day before. “Why not?” he said, keeping his tone casual. “You’re the president.”

Tubbo laughed hollowly. “Well, yeah, but that title doesn’t actually mean anything, does it?”

Not five seconds into their conversation, and already Tubbo was raising whole slews of new questions. Phil pushed down the urge to ask them, though. He didn’t want to scare the kid off. Not again. “Why are you here, then?”

Tubbo bounced nervously on the balls of his feet. “I- I just had to ask something.”

Phil raised an expectant eyebrow.

“If you hate me so much, then why did you let me go?” Tubbo raised a hand to his throat that Phil noticed, with a little stab of guilt, had a small bandage over it. “When you had your, uh, dagger. You could’ve killed me, or used me as leverage to get out of L’Manberg. But instead, as soon as you got the compass, you just… dropped the knife and shoved me away. Sure, you saved Technoblade… but you could’ve saved yourself too.”

Phil let out a deep sigh. During the long hours he’d been sitting alone in his cell for, he’d been wondering a similar thing. He could’ve easily kept Tubbo as his hostage, used him to avoid this godforsaken situation entirely. But really, in the moment, the only thing he’d been thinking about was protecting Techno. He hadn’t cared about what happened to him — still didn’t care, really. All he wanted was Techno to be safe.

He hadn’t wanted to hold Tubbo at knifepoint, but the situation had called for it. And, as soon as the danger to his son had passed, so too had the need to have the president as leverage.

Phil didn’t know if now, his wings and power locked away, rotting away in this cell for what could be forever, he regretted his decision.

“First of all,” he said eventually, “I don’t hate you. I would never kill you.”

Tubbo’s eyes widened. “But—”

“It was a threat I never would’ve actually gone through with, Tubbo. You’re a kid. You’re 16. _Maybe_ if you weren’t on your last life and the situation had been _really_ dire, but you are and it wasn’t. I wasn’t going to permanently kill a fucking 16-year-old.”

“Oh,” Tubbo said quietly. “But you still let me go?”

Phil heaved another sigh. “I don’t know. I guess you were just… so _scared_. I felt guilty, really. So once I had the compass and I didn’t need to hold you captive anymore, I just wanted to let you go. I didn’t really think to use you to get away.”

“Do you regret it now? Given, well,” Tubbo gestured around the cell, “this.”

Phil relaxed back into the rocky wall, allowing his eyes to slip shut. “Y’know, Tubbo. I think…” he paused for a moment before finally admitting, “I think I might.”

“Ah.”

“But that’s neither here nor there. There’s no point in wishing you’d done something different, not unless you can time travel,” Phil said, opening his eyes again and pushing himself off the ground. “ Now that you’ve asked a question, do I get to do the same?”

Tubbo blinked. “I suppose…?”

“Great.” Phil leaned forward slightly. “Yesterday. What you said about Quackity. Explain.”

Tubbo winced. “Oh, yeah. That.”

Phil gestured for him to continue.

“Well, I feel like I… don’t really have the power to make decisions, anymore. When Tommy was being exiled, Quackity and Fundy, the people who should’ve been backing me up, kept undermining me and disobeying my orders. It was only by changing my decision _on the day_ that I was able to save L’Manberg from Dream’s wrath.” Now that Tubbo had started speaking he couldn’t seem to stop. The words tumbled out of his mouth unthinkingly, unfiltered, a weight that had been dragging him down for _weeks_ that he was finally lifting from his chest. It seemed that he hadn’t had anyone to talk to in a long time.

“And now… it’s like Quackity’s just doing what he wants. There’s a hit list, you see, of people who oppose L’Manberg’s power. I thought we were making it so we knew who to keep tabs on, who to be wary of. But it turns out Quackity and Fundy want to hunt them down, kill them all. And some of the things Quackity’s suggesting we do,” Tubbo shuddered slightly. “I- I don’t– I don’t want _that_ to be what L’Manberg is, I don’t want that to be my legacy, but when I say something in protest they just… ignore me, go on to do whatever reckless thing they want, and then hide behind me, say ‘oh well it’s _Tubbo_ who’s the president,’ when it all goes wrong.” Tubbo stopped, took a deep breath, prepared to continue speaking, then seemed to realise how much he’d overshared.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, his eyes wide. “I shouldn’t have— Phil, you can’t tell anyone I said that. Please, Quackity can’t know. I know you don’t—”

Phil cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. The chain that hung from his wrist rattled as it was moved. “Who would I tell, anyway? No one would believe the word of a prisoner over that of the president.”

Tubbo let out a breath. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Phil considered Tubbo’s words. It sounded to him like the kid was being treated like a figurehead, a puppet ruler, that his subordinates were taking advantage of his age and inexperience and using it to exert their own power. That… actually explained quite a bit.

It wasn’t his place to tell Tubbo what to do or to assume any sort of power over him, but the kid obviously needed help. The fact that _Phil_ , a prisoner, the man who had attacked him the day before and was withholding the location of a fugitive, was the one that Tubbo had come to talk to… well, that implied a lot of things about the people Tubbo was surrounded by, none of which were good.

“Have you considered,” Phil said carefully, knowing that he was treading on unstable ground, “that maybe you should demote them? Find replacements?”

Tubbo shook his head instantly. “I couldn’t. They’ve fought for L’Manberg just as much as I have. They deserve their positions. I- I can’t be like Schlatt, demoting and promoting people on a whim like that.”

“Tubbo,” Phil said gently, “you’d be doing it for the safety of your own country. That’s— that’s the _furthest_ thing from Schlatt. Who told you that it would be like him?”

Tubbo cringed back slightly. “I’ve… I’ve brought up that idea before. Of replacing them. Quackity said… that’s what Quackity said. He’s said it other times, too, with other things I’ve wanted to do. And he’s right, of course. He was Schlatt’s Vice President before, he knows what he was like. And I won’t, I _won’t_ turn into Schlatt.”

Phil nearly cursed. This issue ran far deeper than he’d suspected, and doing anything about it from his current position would be nearly impossible. The first thing he needed to learn more about the problem at hand… but he could also tell that Tubbo was growing increasingly uncomfortable the more they spoke of the topic.

So instead, he smiled gently and said, “Thank you, Tubbo. That’s it for questions.” He knew, as tension visibly drained away from Tubbo’s shoulders and the kid’s entire posture relaxed slightly, that he had made the right decision. “So, then. How was your day?”

Tubbo perked up at the question, and a small smile spread over his face.

Countless minutes had ticked by as they spoke of various inconsequential things. Phil watched Tubbo’s mannerisms attentively, noted the way the kid stumbled over his words and backtracked sharply whenever he said something he thought Phil might not like; the way he glanced around nervously every few minutes or whenever a particularly loud slam or creaking groan echoed through the prison; the way he only began to truly relax when their conversation had gone on for significant time and Phil remained calm all throughout it.

Though there seemed to be nothing physically wrong with Tubbo — no winces of pain as he jumped up and down as he got excited over a topic, no stiffness or hesitance in his movements as he threw his hands out to animatedly emphasise the point he was making — these mannerisms, though barely noticeable, had still painted a rather unpleasant picture.

Even without the visual clues, the fact that Tubbo, the president, was so willing to speak with him, a prisoner, and was continuously thrilled over the slightest shred of positivity Phil showed him, would’ve told him that something was off.

And while Phil could guess, and suspected that some of his guesses would be close to the truth, ultimately he didn’t really know what was going on. And with his lack of knowledge came an inability to help.

He was determined to change that.

Tubbo had left a few minutes earlier, when he’d looked down at his watch, realised he was late for something and fled with a hasty, shouted farewell.

Phil thought the kid was probably going to be back. It was a rather comforting thought, the idea that he wouldn’t be left alone.

He was proven right the next day.

-o-

Phil was certain the conditions of his imprisonment fell short of any sort of regulations and standards regarding such things. He was also certain Quackity, who he knew was the real one behind all this, didn’t give two shits about it.

The cold, cramped cell; the sparse, uncomfortable furniture; the meagre meals that Phil didn’t touch anyway because no matter how hungry he got, he couldn’t stomach any food, not with the revolting magic of the clamps bearing down on him. It was horrible and degrading and it chipped away at his resolve to remain unshaken by his situation.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe this was meant to break him.

After all, Phil did still have information Quackity wanted.

( _“Quackity says we should force you to tell us where Technoblade’s house is,” Tubbo had said one day, as he sat on the ground outside the cell._

_Phil had shifted uncomfortably. That didn’t sound good. “And? What did you say?”_

_Tubbo had thrown Phil an affronted glare, though there had been no real heat behind it. “You shouldn’t even have to ask, Phil! I said no, of course. I would never let that happen.”_

_“And Quackity? How did he respond?”_

_“He tried to convince me to agree with him. But he gave up eventually.”_

_Somehow, that had done little to reassure Philza of his own safety. From what he’d heard, Quackity rarely gave up without a fight. The man had to be planning something. Phil hadn’t shared his misgivings with Tubbo, though, and instead nodded and said, “Thanks, Tubbo.”_

_Tubbo had smiled back at him, proud to have protected his friend._ )

Tubbo’s visits had, somewhere down the line, become an expected part of Phil’s day. They were something that broke up the dull monotony of prison life, and also gave him a solid frame of reference for how many days he’d been imprisoned, which meant that the time he spent in his cell didn’t end up blurring into one painful stretch of hours and days. So far, five days had passed.

When the chains and magic that weighed down his wings became too heavy to bear and the pain of the manacles that had rubbed his wrists raw became too sharp to ignore, when, as the long hours of isolation stretched on, he fought back tears that threatened to well in his eyes and splash onto the dirty rock below, and when the true hopelessness of his situation threatened to open up below him and drag him into its seething depths;

Tubbo’s visits were the one thing that kept him from drowning.

Phil was pretty sure that, for Tubbo, visiting him was one of the few things stopping him from losing complete grasp on the fragile illusion of his own presidential power. Each day the kid would come down the corridor looking more and more miserable, and the stories he shared of his days became more and more about the control his supposed subordinates were exerting over him — though Tubbo still didn’t seem to be truly aware of his own situation. 

The advice, support, and comfort Phil offered him was a pillar of support as his position crumbled around him, and the subtle urging to push Quackity away, to resist the man’s orders and get out from under his control, was really all that was stopping Quackity from gaining complete control over L’Manberg.

Phil could also tell that Tubbo was struggling with more than just his position. He could tell that the kid was lonely and that he was desperately trying to find a friend in him. It was never outright said, of course, but the mere fact that saw fit to set aside a chunk of his day to visit Phil — it spoke all the words that were needed. 

Whenever Tubbo left, it was always with a happier expression and a slight spring in his step.

So really, it was a rather win-win situation.

Phil had decided that today he was going to broach a topic that had been on his mind since he and Tubbo had progressed past the point of just acquaintances. It had been five days now, and he didn’t think he could go another with the clamps still on his wings. The weight of their choking magic was becoming unbearable.

And so, a few minutes into their conversation, when there was a pause that allowed him to naturally ask the question, he spoke.

“Tubbo,” he said, and he didn’t know how to ask gently so he just plowed right on, “can you remove the clamps?”

Tubbo froze, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. “I– what?”

Phil gestured back at his wings. “The clamps.”

Tubbo shook his head, taking a few scuttling steps backwards. “I don’t think I can,” he said, suddenly nervous. “Quackity wouldn’t want me to.”

Phil let out a frustrated exhale, the breath hissing through his teeth. “We’ve talked about this, Tubbo. Quackity isn’t the president, _you_ are. You can’t let him rule over your decisions!”

“But what if he does something to me? What then?”

“You’re the _president_ , Tubbo! You don’t need to worry about that!”

“Yeah, well maybe I’m the president, but Quackity’s the one that’s got everyone’s support!” Tubbo burst out. He took a few ragged breaths before he continued speaking, the words coming out in a torrent. “He wants power. He wants to make L’Manberg strong, and he’s willing to do whatever he needs to get that. The people— that’s what they _like_. Quackity wants to kill everyone on the hit list, and the people support it. All I want is peace, Phil. That’s all I’ve been working to get. Peace— that’s what I want my legacy to be. But that– that’s not a sentiment that many people share. I’m sorry,” his voice was choked with emotions from his outburst. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t help you.”

Tubbo turned and stared down the corridor.

_No no no, he couldn’t go, he was the only one who could get the clamps off Phil’s wings, he was the only one that could help, no no no—_

“Tubbo, wait!” Phil cried out, his voice breaking as finally allowed the distress he’d been hiding to bleed into his tone and colour his words with the true desperation he felt. Tubbo turned back to him. “Please, Tubbo, wait. You need to get them off. You can’t imagine how bad they are. You can’t imagine how they feel. I- I don’t think I can keep going with them. I swear, Tubbo, I’m not exaggerating. I’m not lying. I need them gone. I _need_ them gone.”

His breaths came in shuddering gasps as the dam that had been holding his emotions back shattered, sending a tidal wave of fear and anger and despair flooding through his system. It was shameful, really, the way he just _broke down_ in front of the shocked teenager, but now that the wall had broken, there was nothing he could do but wait the tide out. 

Phil didn’t know when it had happened, but at some point, he had fallen to his knees. He was kneeling on the rocky ground of his cell and he found, when he raised a hand to his face, that there were tears staining his cheeks.

Oh.

“Phil?” Tubbo whispered, horrified, once the brunt of Phil’s meltdown had passed. He was crouched right outside the bars, holding them in a white-knuckled grip, as though he wanted to pull them apart to help the shaking man beyond. “Phil, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you— are you okay?”

Phil let out a wet little laugh, a sound that was bitter and sad and reflected all the pain he felt. “No, Tubbo. I’m not. These clamps. I can’t. I- I really can’t. I need you to get them off my wings, _please_.”

Tubbo took a deep breath. He glanced around quickly, as though he expected someone to be spying on them from the shadows, and then let the air out in a gusty sigh. “Ok. Ok, Phil, I can– I can do that. Just give me a moment.”

Phil was left alone as Tubbo darted down the corridor, presumably to get some sort of keys. He pushed himself off the ground slowly, unsure how to feel now that he’d finally let all of his bottled-up emotions come crashing out. In front of Tubbo, no less.

He supposed, if it meant that Tubbo was going to free his wings, that it was a good thing he’d done.

He glanced back at said wings, something he’d been trying to avoid doing since he’d been locked away. He hadn’t wanted to watch as they slowly wasted away. As they were stuck folded shut, he had no way to preen or clean or exercise them, and it had definitely left its mark. The feathers, even in the dim lighting of his cell, appeared dull and lifeless, with none of their usual glossy purple sheen. Many of them were bent or displaced and, he noted with a pang in his chest, some of them were even falling out. 

Phil reached up a hand to run it down the wing, ignoring the pain that shot through his wrist at the movement. Wings were the pride of an avian hybrid’s existence. To have his own in such a horrible state was a disgrace, a dishonour, and even though it was by no means his fault, he still couldn’t quell the feelings of disgust and shame that rose at the sight.

He was pulled from his thoughts as the prison door opened again and Tubbo returned, holding a pair of keys in one hand and what looked like a sort of crowbar in the other.

Tubbo unlocked the cell door thoughtlessly but paused before he actually approached Phil, seeming to remember the ways the man had acted before, during his arrest and subsequent detainment.

“You’re not going to… attack me, are you?” he asked warily.

Phil stared at him, then raised his eyes to the open cell door. The idea genuinely hadn’t crossed his mind, but if Tubbo freed his wings…

“Nah,” he said casually, not entirely certain that it was the truth. “But that’s probably what I’d say if I were going to.”

Tubbo shifted uneasily from foot to foot. He turned and locked the door — a meaningless move, as if Phil attacked him he could just grab the keys — and then, seeming to make up his mind about trusting his friend, began approaching Phil.

Phil let out a sigh of relief. He had been worried there that the president was going to change his mind and pull the rug out from under the hope he’d allowed himself to feel. But it seemed that the kid trusted him.

He still wasn’t sure if that was a good decision on Tubbo’s behalf.

Phil held his wings still as Tubbo stepped up beside them. He raised the crowbar-like object he held, latched it into something in one of the clamps, twisted it, and then the entire thing jumped open and fell away from the wing.

The surge of power that coursed through Phil’s veins nearly took his breath away.

Phil began to stretch the wing out but halted the movement as the muscles tightened with the pain of a cramp that sent flares of fiery agony racing through his shoulders and back. Being stuck in the same position for five days will do that, he thought, as he sucked in a sharp breath and held it, trying to ride out the wave of pain.

Fuck, that hurt.

By this point, Tubbo had walked over to the other wing, repeated the process, and the other clamp had fallen away too.

Phil was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE’VE GOT SOME [FANART](https://twitter.com/no_bodyexe/status/1342339005099159552?s=21) OF PHIL IN JAIL, DONE BY THE AMAZINGLY SKILLED VAL!! GO CHECK IT OUT!!!  
> SOME [MORE](https://twitter.com/winter_mornings/status/1344066258409545736?s=21) DONE BY WINTER-MORNINGS, AGAIN OF PHIL! HIS EXPRESSION HERE IS HEART-WRENCHING, IT’S SO AMAZING! GO CHECK IT OUT!!  
> THERE’S EVEN AN [ANIMATIC](https://youtu.be/9NRDi_pw-wU) OF THE FIRST 11 CHAPTERS OF THE FIC, BY THE SPECTACULAR MOLLY


	12. Interlude - Ghost

There was a reason Ghostbur did everything in his power to avoid high-stress situations.

Ever since he’d first opened his eyes, since his first thought had flitted through his head and he’d felt his first sensations, he’d seen flashes. Flashes of feelings, of fear and pain and betrayal.

They were never more substantial than emotions, and they always passed too quickly for him to grasp onto — dissipated like smoke before he could really register their presence — but they were there. They were always there.

Strong negative emotions made those flashes of feelings turn into memories. 

They made Ghostbur remember not just the feeling of betrayal, but the tiny blackstone room he’d been in at the time. They made him remember not just the feeling of fear, but the podium he’d been standing below, the tyrant he’d been staring up at, at the time. They made him remember not just the feeling of pain, but the sword that had been stabbed through his chest, the tears that had dripped down his cheeks, at the time.

They made him remember a time where he’d laugh and smile, not when making others happy with his jokes and playful antics, but instead when making them suffer. They made him remember the claws of madness that had sunk into his mind and dragged him down when he’d been alive.

When he got out of the situations that kick-started those memories, when he held onto some blue or found a different way to feel happy again, they faded.

His knowledge of this was instinctive. Obviously, he didn’t _remember_ it happening, but he knew it had. He knew it had, and he knew the way to avoid it was to stay out of situations that could make him feel sad or angry or scared. 

That was why Ghostbur made such an effort to be positive all the time.

-o-

Ghostbur hummed happily as he floated along the rolling hills of a flower forest. Slung over one of his arms was a small basket filled to the brim with dandelions, poppies, tulips, and all other sorts of flowers. He stopped, leaned down, plucked a rose from the ground, and added it to his basket.

A branch cracked behind him.

Ghostbur looked up curiously, glancing around the slowly darkening forest. The sun was setting, and there could be any number of hostile creatures hiding in the shadows of the trees.

Ghostbur, of course, didn’t have to worry about monsters anymore.

He heard another crackling footstep and turned to see a familiar figure step out from behind the bough of an oak tree.

“Oh!” Ghostbur said, perking up slightly. “Hello, Dream! I was just thinking of decorations we could bring to Tommy’s party!” He held out his little basket of flowers. “Do you think they’re pretty?”

Behind his mask, though Ghostbur couldn’t see it, Dream was studying him with a calculating gaze. “Very pretty, Ghostbur,” he said eventually, his voice coated in layers of cloying sweetness and false cheer. “Would you like some help picking more?”

Ghostbur smiled. “Sure! Do you have a basket you can use?”

Dream made a show of glancing around, searching for a basket, before he heaved a heavy sigh and shook his head.

“That’s ok! You can use mine instead.”

Dream graciously accepted the basket Ghostbur offered him. “Thank you,” he said.

Ghostbur hummed a happy little acknowledgment.

After a moment’s pause, Dream said, “I know a flower forest that’s even bigger than this one. It’s right near one of my bases, so after we pick the flowers we’ll be able to make the invites to the party. Let’s go there.”

“I’ve already got some invites—” Ghostbur reached out to the basket and nudged aside some of the flowers to reveal the envelopes nestled at the bottom— “but I was actually just thinking that I’d need more!” he said. “You can lead the way.”

A twisted grin spread over Dream’s face, hidden behind his mask. This was almost too easy.

Ghostbur floated alongside Dream as he trekked through the hills and plains, chattering happily about anything and everything that came to his mind. Dream listened patiently, kindly, nodding along to what the ghost said and hiding his true opinions behind a well-practiced facade of caring.

His true opinions, of course, being that he’d like nothing more than to end the stupid ghost’s existence right then and there. But ghosts could be useful, and Dream wanted to have his fun with this.

“We’re nearly there,” Dream said as they crested a hill and an ominous-looking structure of blackstone and dark oak came into view.

Ghostbur blinked, floating a bit higher and looking around. Eventually, he said mildly, “Dream, this is a dark forest, not a flower forest.”

“Oh, I know. I was just thinking — do you think we could make the invitations first? My base is just here, and the flower forest is a little further on.”

“Oh, that does make sense. Sure!”

Dream pressed a button to open the looming door and stood back as the blackstone was pushed aside by a complex piston system. “Come on,” he said, stepping forward, grinning as Ghostbur followed him without question.

“Where’s the paper?” the ghost asked, glancing around the room that was lit only by a blazing fire pit in its centre. “I think we should start writing out the rest of the invites as soon as possible. Then I can go to L’Manberg tomorrow and hand them all out!”

Dream pointed to a small, shadowed room that stood to their right. “Just in there,” he said. “Could you grab me a stack too?”

Dream smiled as the naive ghost let out a happy “sure!” and floated over to the doorway, ducking into the room. After a few moments he called out, “Dream, there’s no paper in here? All I can see are big marble things lining the walls.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Dream, standing just outside the room. He flicked a lever and the doorway and walls, all engraved with runes that were barely visible against the dark wood, suddenly shimmered with an enchanted barrier.

Ghostbur floated curiously over to the doorway and reached out a hand to touch it. The barrier sizzled and sent a sharp jolt through the ghost’s arm, and he jumped back with a surprised yelp. “Dream?” he said. “Dream, I think I’m stuck in here.”

Dream turned away from him. “That’s the idea.”

Ghostbur’s eyes widened, and there was a hint of fear in his voice when he said, “Dream, I- I don’t think I like this very much. Could you let me out, please?”

Dream ignored Ghostbur and walked to the centre of the room. He took great pleasure in hearing the ghost cry out in protest as he threw the basket into the fire. The flowers and invites and the basket itself caught alight and were quickly reduced to ash.

“I- I don’t… Why would you do that?” Ghostbur asked, staring wide-eyed at the fire. His gaze flicked over to Dream, who now stood at a control panel. “Please, Dream, just let me out. I- I don’t know what I did wrong but—”

Dream pressed a few buttons and then pulled a lever, and the door to the room Ghostbur was in slammed shut, cutting off his pleads and isolating him in complete darkness.

Dream flicked another lever and suddenly the claw that hung suspended at the top of the chamber, that Ghostbur hadn’t noticed until now, whirred into action. It darted to the side, grabbed one of the orbs that lined the walls, and brought it back to the centre of the room.

Ghostbur stared up with wide eyes as the contraption crackled with green and yellow sparks, beginning to glow softly before growing brighter and brighter until it was too blinding to look at. He darted over to where he knew the doorway was, clawing desperately at the barrier, biting back cries of pain as the enchantments burned his ghostly flesh.

A ghastly wail was torn from his throat as the power began dragging him towards its epicentre, the orb, and tried desperately to cling to the floor. His efforts were in vain, however, and it only took a few seconds before he was trapped within its choking confines.

The machine, its job done, shut off, and the doors hissed open slowly.

Dream smiled down at the gently glowing sphere that lay in the centre of the room.

“Two down, two to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who’s that Pokémon?
> 
> Also I know you guys are shouting, “but curseworm, how does Dream know how to do all this?”  
> I hear you and my answer is, “Ghostbur isn’t the first ghost Dream’s captured. Dream has had the time to experiment.”
> 
> YOOO GUYS THERE’S AN ABSOLUTELY EPIC [ANIMATIC](https://youtu.be/9BtgbV30HmY) OF THIS INTERLUDE BY MOLLY!!


	13. Comfort

Tommy’s panic and his rather dismal escape attempt had left him drained of what little energy he’d possessed, and so he fell asleep mere minutes after being laid on Techno’s bed.

Techno wanted nothing more than to do the same — to sit back, kick his legs up, and allow himself to sleep for a week — but Tommy had done a number on himself. Techno needed to fix that.

So he picked up his first aid kit, placed it next to Tommy with a sigh, and set to work. Compared to the first time, this procedure was nothing. Just a few scrapes and bruises from throwing himself to the ground and dragging himself across the floor. Techno carefully wiped the blood away from Tommy’s skin, patched up the small cuts that littered his knees and hands, and then redressed the stump of his calf.

That wasn’t what had worried him, though. The illness that Tommy was afflicted by ran far further than skin-deep, and his escapade into the storage room couldn’t have helped. What Techno was concerned about was the pneumonia he could still hear in his brother’s rattling breaths and the adverse effects he knew he had to be suffering from drinking a potion in the state he was in.

Techno had gotten milk into Tommy’s system as quickly as possible, but not even that would be able to stave off all the damage the potion’s magic had caused. He could tell by the way Tommy’s fever, which had been dropping ever-so-slightly, had come back in a surge and once again raised his brother’s temperature. He could hear it in the shallow, wheezing breaths Tommy took as the infection in his lungs, which his immune system had slowly been battling back, began to worsen again.

And the worst part was that Techno had no medicine to give him, nothing that would help except for potions, that would inevitably end up doing far more harm than good.

Techno shouldn’t have allowed himself to doze off, not with Tommy in as vulnerable of a state as he was. He should’ve remained alert and attentive to his brother’s state. He should’ve woken as soon as Tommy had, and helped him get through his panic and fear.

Instead, he’d reassured himself that it would be okay if he rested for a bit, he’d slept through Tommy’s awakening and, in doing so, he had allowed his brother to hurt himself even further in his rampant fear.

Techno cursed his own failure, both as a healer, for allowing any of this to happen in the first place, and as a brother, for the fact that Tommy was so _terrified_ of him that he’d injure himself in his haste and desperation to escape.

This time, at least, Tommy’s unconscious state was a natural thing and not caused by any sort of coma. That meant that he would awaken if anything went seriously wrong — if he started coughing or choking or just dying in general — and that hopefully, he would be calmer when he awoke the second time.

It also meant that Techno could allow his guard to drop, at least for the moment. He could rest properly for the first time in nearly a week. He didn’t particularly want to, of course — not after what had happened last time — but his eyes were slipping shut again as the adrenaline that had allowed him to find and treat Tommy wore off, and this time, the consequences of falling asleep would inevitably be less severe.

So, once he had laid a wet cloth on Tommy’s forehead to help with his fever and left a cold glass of milk on the bedside table for his brother to drink when he woke, Techno slumped back into his chair and allowed his eyes to slip shut.

He would sleep for a few hours, and hopefully, wake before Tommy did.

Techno was out like a light.

-o-

Sunlight streamed through the panelled windows of Techno’s cabin.

Tommy’s eyes fluttered open slowly. He rolled onto his side and let out a low groan that was abruptly interrupted by a harsh fit of coughs that tore themselves from his throat. Pain stabbed his chest, and each cough was accompanied by a hoarse tugging that made it feel like he was trying to hack out his own lungs.

Overall, not a very pleasant thing to wake to.

It was only once the coughs had subsided, leaving him feeling weak and shaky and gasping for breath, that Tommy allowed himself to slump back into the mattress he lay on.

Hold on.

Why was he on a mattress?

Tommy’s brow furrowed as he attempted to recall what had happened over the past few days.

The memories weren’t very substantial — his sleep-hazed mind being unable to remember more than the flashes of the emotions — but he remembered some things. He remembered miserable long hours of cold and injury and sickness, then nothing, then fear and desperation and terror and then, very briefly, a flickering feeling of warmth and hope and safety. 

It was that last thing that he latched onto as he pushed himself up, slowly, and glanced around the room he was in. If that’s how he had felt just before he had fallen asleep, then surely he was okay now?

He scanned the room slowly, taking note of the dusty bookshelves, the shavings of wood that lay scattered around the floor, and its general unkempt, messy air. 

Then his eyes met with a pair of crimson ones.

Tommy paled and wasn’t able to push back the fear that rose at the sight of Technoblade, sitting by his bedside, watching him with a tired expression.

He cringed back as Techno leaned towards him, but his brother only pushed forward a glass of milk that Tommy hadn’t previously noticed. “Drink,” he said, his voice gruff and thick with sleep. Tommy wondered how long he had been awake. “You‘ll feel better.”

Tommy reached out hesitantly and wrapped his hands around the glass. The chilled material was cool and soothing against skin that he hadn’t realised up until now was flushed and hot to the touch.

Tommy watched Techno cautiously for a reaction, but the man only continued staring at him with those unsettlingly listless eyes. Heartened by the lack of punishment, Tommy pulled the glass towards himself and held it close to his chest.

He sat still, savouring the chill of its touch for a few moments before Techno interrupted him with a groan. “I said drink, not caress.”

Tommy flinched and nodded quickly, muttering out a quick, hoarse apology before tipping the glass up and gulping it down in a few hasty mouthfuls. Techno’s eyes widened and he reached out with a shout of protest. Tommy recoiled at the loud noise, nearly dropping the glass.

“You can’t drink it that quickly,” Techno scolded as he reached out and snatched the glass from Tommy’s trembling fingers. “You’re going to hurt yourself. You just need to—”

“Sorry,” Tommy said quickly, then cringed back as he realised he had interrupted Techno. But he continued anyway, saying, “Sorry, I thought you wanted me to— I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Tommy,” Techno said, setting the empty glass aside, his voice taking on a gentler air. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re fine. You just have to be more careful.”

Tommy nodded quickly. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, of course. I’ll be more careful next time. I’m sorry.”

The words grated on Tommy’s throat, which was raw and sore from disuse, but he had to make sure Techno knew. That way maybe he’d be able to alleviate some of the punishment he knew was coming.

“Do you want another drink?”

Tommy opened his mouth to blurt out a quick negative answer, but hesitated. The milk had actually been… _really_ nice. He hadn’t realised it when he’d awoken, but his insides felt like they were _burning_ , like there was something, some fiery force, eating away at them. The milk had soothed that. The milk had helped. So Tommy, his movements laced with hesitation and fear, nodded slightly.

Techno huffed an acknowledgement, picked up the glass, and made his way out of the room.

Tommy was left alone to contemplate the bizarreness of his situation.

He still wasn’t exactly sure what had happened preceding his awakening. His memories all seemed a little fuzzy around the edges, like they were all submerged in a pool of cloudy water and had to be dragged out before Tommy could properly see them.

Tommy, of course, was not afraid to get his hands wet. So he focused hard on the memories, reaching in and beginning to pull them out.

They were a dizzying mix of pain and fear, but one thing stood out amongst them, amongst the most recent ones. He couldn’t stand. He had fallen down, been crawling across the floor, dragging himself across the ground, because he _couldn’t stand_.

Tommy hastened to throw off the thin sheet that covered his body, and stared down in horror at the sight he was met with. Because the recollections had been right. His foot was gone. His fucking right foot was gone.

He looked up sharply as he heard a gentle knocking on wood, and saw Techno standing in the doorway, his arm raised, knocking to let Tommy know he was back. In one hand, the one he had knocked with, he held the refilled glass of milk, and the other held a steaming bowl of… something.

“What did you do to me?” Tommy whispered, his eyes sliding back to the stump of his calf.

“Tommy,” Techno said carefully, walking across the room and setting his cargo down on the bedside table. “I did what I had to.”

“You—” Tommy fell silent as he stared down at his leg, fighting back the bile that threatened to rise. He didn’t, however, fight back the anger that accompanied it. “You cut off my leg. You cut off my fucking leg. And what, you _had to_? You had to what? Fucking _maim_ me? Techno, you— you’ve fucked me up. You fucking— y- you didn’t have to—” 

Tommy took a shuddering breath, realising quite suddenly that there were tears falling from his eyes. He raised a hand to wipe them away and only then saw just how bony his arms were. He stared down at his hands, at his long, spindly, _frail_ fingers, for a long moment, before rather abruptly heaving in a breath and burying his head in his hands, clenching his fingers in his filthy, matted hair, not even trying to hold back the sobs that wracked his emaciated form.

“Oh, Tommy,” Techno sighed, stepping forward and placing a gentle hand on his brother’s shoulder. Tommy tensed under the unwelcome touch but, after a few moments passed and nothing bad came of it, he relaxed slightly.

Tommy shook his head wordlessly, too overcome by emotions to do anything but weep. Techno crouched down next to the bed, put his other hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and pulled him towards his chest, enveloping him in a soft hug. 

The teenager’s breath hitched fearfully, and he once again stiffened in Techno’s arms, but his expectations were once again undermined as his brother did nothing but hold him in the warm, comforting hug. Eventually, he allowed himself to lean slightly into it.

“I didn’t want to,” Techno said. “Believe me. You have no idea how much I hated it. But your foot was— it was _gone_ , Tommy. I couldn’t have done anything. I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong with me, Techno? Why am I—” Tommy was cut off by a fit of hacking coughs, and Techno stepped back slightly to avoid the spittle and mucus that flew from his mouth. 

Tommy gasped in a few wheezing breaths, struggling to inhale properly, and Techno watched anxiously until he finally caught his breath and took a few regular, if a bit shallow, breaths.

“Here,” Techno said quietly, picking up and holding out the milk he’d gotten.

Tommy took it gratefully and drank it, slower this time. Once he was done, he carefully set the glass aside, and asked, “Will I ever be able to walk again?”

Techno nodded, and Tommy let out a relieved exhale. “Here,” Techno leaned down and picked something from the ground. “It’s not much, not yet, but, well,” he held it out and showed Tommy the temporary wooden prosthetic he’d hewn from a spruce log. “I’m going to work on designing a better one for you. With Phil, probably, if— _when_ he gets home.”

At the mention of their father, Techno had raised one of his hands to the gently glowing emerald that hung by his sternum. As soon as he realised what he’d done, he dropped the hand with a quick shake of his head.

“Can we put it on?” Tommy asked carefully, gesturing at the prosthetic. 

Techno nodded but didn’t hand over the leg. “First,” he said, and Tommy tensed slightly, but Techno only turned and picked up the steaming bowl he’d brought in. It was full of some sort of broth. He held it out. “Eat.”

Tommy stared down at it apprehensively. “I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

Techno bit back a sigh. Tommy had pneumonia. Of course he wasn’t hungry. But he still needed to eat. “Tommy,” he said, almost warningly. “You need to eat something.”

Tommy winced slightly but shook his head resolutely. “I’m not hungry,” he repeated.

“ _Tommy_ ,” Techno said, and this time he couldn’t hold back the sharpness and frustration that bled into his tone. He was tired, and it meant that his patience was thin. Over the past six days, due to the fact that he’d been treating Tommy, he’d gotten under ten hours of sleep — not that he was going to complain about that — and now that his brother was awake, he was refusing to take this small action that was _for his own good_. “It’s just fucking broth. It’s not even food. Would it be better if I told you to drink it? Will you have it then?”

Tommy flinched back sharply at the tone, then reached out with shaking hands and wordlessly took the bowl from Techno, who blinked in surprise. “Tommy…?” he said, suddenly unsure.

He wasn’t going to protest the fact that Tommy was doing as he was told — though it really was a very un-Tommy-like thing to do — but the way Tommy’s fingers trembled as they wrapped around the spoon, the way he began eating the soup like his life depended on it, such a sharp contrast to his protest mere moments before... well, it put Techno on edge. There was something going on here, something that he was missing. And, from the looks of it, it was nothing good.

Tommy set the now-empty bowl down, shooting Techno a hesitant glance. “I’m really sorry,” he said quietly. “I- is that what you wanted?”

Tommy fidgeted nervously as Techno stared at him for a long moment, before he finally nodded and said, “Yes, Tommy. Thank you. You don’t need to apologise.”

Tommy looked unconvinced but muttered out an acknowledgement. It sounded to Techno like he was holding back to urge to just apologise again.

Tommy made to swing his legs over the side of the bed but stopped with a groan as the headache that had been throbbing behind his temples the entire time worsened slightly. He raised a hand to his head, rubbing at the flushed skin in an attempt to lessen the pounding. “I don’t know if I want to get up, actually,” he confessed. “I don’t feel very good.”

Techno sat back slightly, setting the prosthetic back onto the wooden floor. “Do whatever you think is best,” he said.

Tommy nodded slightly. “I think I’d like to—” a few coughs tore themselves from his throat, and, once the fit had subsided, he slumped into the bed with another groan, his eyes slipping shut. “I think I’d like to go back to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Techno said quietly, his voice uneasy. “Yeah, you do that.” 

Techno had experience caring for Tommy when he was sick. He hadn’t done it in years, but back when they were kids he had done it countless times. His brother had always been loud and energetic, even when weighed down by infection or injury — always insisting that he was ok, that he was fine, that Techno should piss off with his worried hovering and let him do whatever he wanted.

One time, when Tommy had gotten smallpox at a time when he’d been too young for him to safely drink potions, things had gotten _really_ bad. But, even when the infection had nearly taken one of his lives, he’d remained loud and cheerful and optimistic, never losing any of his usual energy. If anything, it had been _Tommy_ that comforted his anxious family, reassuring them that he was going to be okay, that he was going to get better.

Seeing Tommy like this was unsettling because it was just so _wrong_. Techno had always hated his high-energy demeanour, had always found it annoying to the extent that he’d rather pull out his own teeth than spend time around him, but now, seeing Tommy like this, he almost _missed_ it.

It had been different when he'd been unconscious, because of course Tommy wasn’t going to be his usual self then, but Techno had genuinely half-expected him to just… go back to normal once he awoke, once he was lucid again.

It seemed ridiculous, looking back on it, but the hope had been there. And even if Techno hadn’t held those expectations to begin with, he never would’ve expected Tommy to be quite _this_ beaten down.

Something had happened, something that extended further than his injuries and sickness.

Someone had done something to his brother.

When Techno got a name, he would hunt them down. And it wouldn’t be pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER HAS [FANART](https://twitter.com/hiobowy/status/1342971764620591104?s=21)!! It’s by Kuro and is of Techno holding his friendship emerald!!


	14. Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2 week anniversary to the fic lmao
> 
> This chapter probably has an inaccurate depiction of pneumonia but here we go

Tommy didn’t seem to get better.

He was, of course, healthier than he’d been during the five long days he’d been in a comatose state, and healthier still than he had been when Techno first found him — not that either of those said very much. He was conscious most days, though he did sleep far more than usual. That, at least, was to be expected, given his illness.

What wasn’t to be expected, however, was the burning fever and hacking coughs and general malaise that just wouldn’t let him free from their clutches.

That wasn’t to say that nothing had changed, of course. Now that Tommy was slightly more aware, Techno was able to lessen his vigilance, spend more time resting, farming, and partaking in other activities of his own choice.

Usually, in a situation like this — where Tommy went from unconscious to conscious — it would mean that his caretaker would have less time to themselves; the teenager’s boisterous presence and constant need for attention removing the chance of them getting any sort of breaks. But this time, with his rather uncharacteristic subdued, submissive bearing, that wasn’t the case. 

Tommy put on a front, of course — a mask of his usual self — but ultimately that’s all it was. A front. Techno could see through the cracks in it, could see the subtle fear and wariness that lined his every word and action.

The caution was so unlike his brother, who usually took whatever reckless, impulsive action he thought up, unknowing and un _caring_ of the effects or consequences. It was that frame of mind that had led to his exile in the first place — an exile that had caused all this and that Techno was rather ashamed to admit he still knew next to nothing about.

All Techno knew was what Phil had been able to tell him. Tommy had griefed George’s house, Dream had threatened L’Manberg, Tubbo had exiled Tommy. Dream had been the one to escort him out.

The voices were of little help. Every time Techno’s thoughts turned to the perpetrator of Tommy’s current state, they flew into a frenzy of chants of _blood_ and _kill_ and _death_ , but weren’t considerate enough to tell Techno _who_ it was that they wanted him to channel the bloodlust towards. And when they were in a state like that, there was no reasoning with them, no way to actually get answers.

If anything, the voices had been the reason Techno hadn’t had the time to analyse what he knew and find the answer himself. When the voices got like that, they often suffocated his own thoughts, which made rational, logical deduction a rather difficult thing to perform. 

It certainly wasn’t helped by the fact that they were more active than usual. As pneumonia could be a contagious infection, Techno had taken to drinking a healing potion at the end of each day to stop himself from contracting it. The resistance to a potion's 'high' that Techno had developed over the years hadn't faded with his lack of potion use, which meant he wasn't as affected as others may have been, but the constant magic had given the voices more energy and power than they had had in a long time — since he had originally stopped drinking potions, in fact — and their previous quietness meant Techno had grown complacent and lost some of his proficiency at controlling them.

Techno had also been avoiding broaching the topic with Tommy, aware of how it would probably trigger a situation that he’d rather avoid. He would bring it up eventually, of course. Once he was confident that Tommy would feel safe enough around him to talk about it.

For now, though, he had to nurse Tommy back to health.

Techno let out a sigh as he set down the bucket of thick honey he’d just collected. There was a small cellar under his house that was full of the sugary liquid, contained in buckets, barrels and bottles. There was no real way he could put it all to use, of course, but he and Phil had spent days setting up the bee farm and he’d be damned if he didn’t reap the materials it sowed.

Techno brought a hand to wipe at his brow, clearing it of the beads of sweat that had gathered there as he worked. He turned and climbed up from the cellar, emerging into the main room. Tommy lay on one of the couches, his eyes closed, quiet snores coming from his half-open mouth.

Techno sighed again as he crossed the room, kneeling by his brother’s sleeping form. He lay a hand on his shoulder and gently shook him awake.

“Tommy,” Techno said quietly as his eyes fluttered open. “You’re at Technoblade’s house. You’re with your family. You’re safe.” It had become a tradition of sorts. Whenever he had to wake Tommy, he’d say those words. It helped alleviate the panic that would otherwise accompany the awakening — though Techno would often still see a flash of fear cross his brother’s face before he fully gained his bearings.

“Hey, Techno,” Tommy murmured drowsily as he laboriously pushed himself into a seated position.

Techno sat on the couch next to him. “Have you eaten today?”

The guilty flicker in Tommy’s eyes answered the question perfectly.

Techno let out a frustrated groan. “Tommy, you need to eat.”

“I know, I know! I just… I’m not hungry, man. I’m never hungry. I’ll drink as much water as you want me to, sure, but I can’t eat.”

“It’s the pneumonia,” Techno said. “It takes away your appetite. But I can assure you, Tommy, you _are_ hungry. Your body is practically screaming for food. And I can’t give you potions until you have more energy in your system.”

“Yeah,” Tommy muttered. “Yeah, okay. Sorry.” He made to get off the couch, but stopped, staring down at the prosthetic that sat in the place of his right foot. “Could you bring me something, please?”

Tommy was far from proficient at walking on his prosthetic leg. He could usually stumble across a room without support from an outside source, but it was a taxing process, and something Techno insisted he avoid.

It was still better than the first time he’d tried, though.

That had been a rather embarrassing affair.

( _“I want to get up,” Tommy whined from where he lay on Techno’s bed. Techno glanced up from the book he was reading. “This bed is stupid. Can I get up?”_

_It was only the fifth time he’d asked._

_Techno set his book to the side and stood with a sigh. “I’m going to feel your temperature,” he said, verbally warning Tommy of the move he was about to make before he reached out and pressed his hand against his brother’s flushed forehead._

_“Well? What’s the verdict, Big Man?” Tommy asked after a moment, and Techno could hear the nervousness behind the brash words._

_“There’s no change.” Of course, feeling temperature by hand was a rather unreliable way of measuring it, but despite all his medical equipment, Techno had found that a thermometer was one thing he lacked. That was something he should probably fix, once all this was over._

_Tommy groaned. “I feel fine, though!” he exclaimed. His point was proven wrong as his shout upset something in his lungs and he was engulfed by a fit of coughing that rattled his chest and left him wheezing for air._

_Techno cocked his head to the side. “You feel fine?”_

_Tommy deflated slightly. “Please?”_

_Techno clenched his jaw, his brows furrowing slightly in thought, before he turned sharply, bent down, and picked up the wooden prosthetic from the ground. It was more refined than it had been when Tommy had originally woken, and would definitely be functional, but it was still just a temporary solution._

_Now that Techno had time to spend doing things other than his worried hovering, he could start designs for a more permanent fix._

_Despite its imperfections, Tommy’s eyes still lit up at the sight of the foot, and he reached down to pull aside the sheets that covered his legs. Techno stepped forward and crouched by the bed, holding out the prosthetic and setting its padded top against the stump of the leg. Tommy flinched slightly as the wool brushed against the flesh (which was only healed enough for prosthesis use due to the potion-soaked bandages Techno had continued to apply) but kept watching, enraptured, as Techno wrapped the leather straps tightly around his calf and thigh, fixing the prosthetic in place._

_By the time Techno stepped back, Tommy was practically vibrating with excitement, his previous fear all but forgotten. Techno watched, a rather melancholy smile playing over his face. He knew that this was going to end badly — was only letting Tommy try it out so that he’d stop bugging him to let him walk — but even so, seeing his brother act with such jubilance and vibrance, so much like his usual self, brought forth a rather unexpected swell of pride and nostalgia._

_Tommy swung his legs off the side off the bed and, without any hesitance, pushed himself to his feet. “Oi, Technobitch, watch me run!” he shouted, taking a step forward—_

_And promptly overbalancing and falling into Techno’s waiting arms._

_Techno raised an unimpressed eyebrow._

_Tommy’s face, already flushed from fever, turned even redder. “Shut up.”)_

But it would suffice to say that Tommy had more experience walking with the prosthetic now than he had a few days ago.

Either way, Techno nodded shortly and stood, making his way to the kitchenette that was tucked into the corner of the room. He picked a bowl out of a drawer, spooned in a serving of the soup that he always kept simmering on the stove for cases like this, and also grabbed a small roll of bread he’d baked earlier in the day.

It was unlikely that he would be able to get Tommy to eat much of the soup, let alone the bread, which was a far more substantial food, but there was no harm in trying.

Techno set the food on the small table by the couch and watched as Tommy let out a few coughs before pulling the bowl onto his lap. He stared into it for a long moment before scooping up and eating a half-hearted spoonful of soup.

Tommy glanced over at Techno. “Is that good?”

Techno levelled him with a deadpan stare.

Tommy sighed and ate another spoonful. He kept going until the bowl was half-empty, before he pushed it to the side. “I can’t keep going.”

“Asking you to eat some bread would probably be useless, then?”

Tommy nodded. “I’m sorry, Techno. I know you want me to eat. I just… I _can’t_.”

“Don’t apologise,” Techno said gruffly. “It’s not your fault. And besides, you’ll get better soon. Then you’ll be eating me out of my house.”

Tommy cracked a small grin. “Yeah,” he said, then broke into another coughing fit. 

Techno stood, quickly filled a cool glass of water, and handed it to Tommy, who had been left gasping for breath. He gratefully accepted the water and swallowed a few mouthfuls, before setting it to the side and lowering himself until he once again lay flat.

“Thanks, Techno,” he said quietly. 

Techno stared at him worriedly for a moment before nodding in acknowledgement. “No problem. You need anything else?”

Usually, Tommy would’ve taken the opportunity to make a joke about women or drugs, and Techno would’ve groaned angrily and muttered that he shouldn’t have even tried. But instead, his brother hesitated before inclining his head slightly.

“Do you think you could get a cloth for my forehead? My head feels like it's burning up.”

Techno’s eyes widened as he realised that the bowl of tepid water and the towel he usually soaked in it, to help with Tommy’s fever, had been left upstairs, in the room his brother had previously been staying in.

Tommy had insisted that he be allowed to lie on the couch downstairs, in the cabin’s main room, because he was “bored of the stupid room” he’d been stuck in. Techno had the sneaking suspicion that he’d been getting lonely.

So, earlier that day, Techno had helped his brother down and onto the couch. But in doing so he had, apparently, left the towel and water upstairs. 

“You should’ve told me I’d left it up there,” Techno scolded.

Tommy winced. “It wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t want to bother you. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t a—” Techno shut his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Tommy. You have pneumonia. You’re literally burning with fever. To top it all off, you’re too weak to be administered potions. You probably feel so much worse than you’re letting on to me—” Tommy’s eyes widened slightly, and Techno resisted the urge to groan. 

“Yes, Tommy, I know you’re hiding some of your symptoms. It’s something you need to stop doing, by the way. But that’s beside the point.” Techno waved his hand in the general direction of the other room. “That cloth is one of the few things that make your situation somewhat more bearable for you. You not having it _is_ a big deal.”

“Yeah,” Tommy muttered, his eyes fixated on the floor. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Tommy. It’s okay. As long as you still have the… thing I gave you? You didn’t leave that upstairs?”

Tommy glanced down at the item clutched in his hand. “Yeah,” he said. “You still haven’t explained what it does, though. You just gave it to me and insisted I didn’t let go.”

Techno shook his head. “You don’t want to know what it is. It’s just— it’s a precaution. But you won’t have to use it.”

Tommy squinted at him. “That makes no sense. But okay, I guess.”

Techno heaved a sigh and pushed himself to his feet. “I’m going to go get the cloth for you. Stay here.”

“What else am I going to do? Run away?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. You’ve done it before. This time you actually _have_ a leg to walk on.”

“Too shay,” Tommy muttered, enunciating each syllable as separate words.

“It’s pronounced touché.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

Techno heaved a heavily dramatised sigh and left the room. A small grin was present on his face.

By the time he returned to the room, bowl and towel in hand, Tommy had already slipped into a fitful sleep.

-o-

From there, Tommy’s state only deteriorated.

Though there were times when he woke and acted relatively normal, where he insisted that he was fine and that Techno’s worried stares and concerned questions were just his brother being an “overprotective twat,” they were few and far between.

Most of the time when he woke he was less lucid and more feverish than the time before. The intervals between his coughing fits grew shorter and each one grew more intense, leaving him gasping for breaths that wouldn’t come and struggling to clear his mucus-clogged throat, and as the days passed his breathing steadily became shallower and more choked.

The worst part was that, no matter how much he wanted to help, there was little Techno could do but wait and hope for the best.

What he could do, however, he did tirelessly. Whenever a hacking fit of coughs woke Tommy, Techno was there to calm him, hand him a drink to soothe his sore throat, and then use his temporary consciousness to urge him to eat some food. Whenever Tommy woke naturally and was lucid enough to speak and be aware of his surroundings, Techno was there to talk to him, comfort him and make sure he wasn’t lonely or scared. And even when Tommy’s periods of unconsciousness stretched on for hours, Techno was still there, replacing the wet cloth on his forehead, wiping away the sweat that soaked through his clothes and hair, watching over him and waiting for the next time he awoke. 

In the days after Tommy had originally woken, things had momentarily seemed to get better. But that had been an illusion, almost as though Tommy’s body, invigorated by his sudden return to consciousness, had granted him a temporary burst of wellness. But now that was wearing off, and Techno’s days were slowly turning back into the long ones he’d spent during Tommy’s coma. 

It was rather ironic, but as Tommy’s bouts of awareness continued to become shorter and shorter, so too did the time Techno spent away from his bedside. 

Control was slipping through Techno’s fingers and he didn’t know what he could do to stop it. 

He didn’t know if there was _anything_ he could do to stop it.

More than anything, Techno wanted Phil’s help. Phil would know what to do. He _always_ knew what to do. He’d take one look at Tommy’s state, ask for some equipment, and then magically be able to make everything better.

But Phil still hadn’t come home.

And Techno was still alone.

-o-

The next day, Tommy’s condition decided to take another turn for the worse.

Techno hovered anxiously at his brother’s bedside, holding a healing potion in both his hands, listening to Tommy’s shallow, choked breaths, staring down at his gaunt, feverish form.

Potions could be a fatal treatment.

Pneumonia could be a fatal infection.

Techno didn’t know what chance he wanted to take. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how all the effort and hard work he’d put into healing Tommy was falling apart so quickly, unravelling at the seams. 

Maybe it was the potion Tommy had drunk, all those nights ago, that had knocked aside a piece and begun the collapse of the fragile house of cards that was his health. Maybe it was his lack of appetite that had meant that, even with all of Techno’s urging and encouragement, he had eaten such a meagre amount of food over the past week and his malnutrition had only worsened. Maybe it was Techno’s own incompetence as a healer, the fact that he hadn’t been enough to help Tommy, that all his effort and resources had fallen short of the treatment he needed, that he had tried and tried _and tried_ _but he wouldn’t, he would never, be able to do anything because—_

 _Calm, calm, calm,_ said the voices, cutting through the despair that had begun to cloud his mind. _Help Tommy, treat Tommy, save Tommy._

Techno grit his teeth and shook his head slightly. They were right. Giving up was a guaranteed way to _not_ save his brother.

Techno glanced down at the object still clutched in Tommy’s hand. If worse came to worst, there was always… _that_. But if he could help it, if he could have _any_ say in the matter, then Tommy would never have to feel the touch of such dark magic.

And so Techno settled down for a long night of caring for his brother and praying, to countless gods he didn’t believe in, for his health. 

He could do this. He could save him.

Hours passed and Tommy’s breathing grew steadily weaker.

The sun was rising, and Techno was losing hope.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what he could do. The blaze powder in potions would kill Tommy, leaving him untreated would likely do the same, and he had nothing else he could give him. Nothing that already existed, at least.

 _Create,_ said the voices. _Make potions. Not blaze power. Other sources._

It’s not like he had any other ideas. So Techno, in an act of desperation, pulled out a brewing stand and began something he never thought he’d do. He started experimenting. Magic was a volatile and dangerous thing, and using unverified ingredients, let alone _power sources_ , to try and brew potions could have catastrophic consequences, but Techno didn’t care.

He needed to save his brother.

He had rooted through his chests to find something to use instead of blaze powder, some substitute for the fiery magic that powered most potions, and had pulled out a deep blue sphere he’d found during his adventures, in a shipwreck he’d explored. He knew of its name from the books he’d collected over the years — it was a heart of the sea — but had never actually used one before, didn’t know _what_ they could be used for.

Techno had been meaning to ask Phil what it was for but had never gotten around to it. He knew it was magical, at least — he could practically sense the potential energy that rolled off it in waves — but that was the extent of his knowledge. Maybe, though, its sea magic would make for a substitute to the burning magic of blaze powder, the very reason Tommy couldn’t drink potions in his current state. That, at least, had been his logic when he’d taken it from the chest, ground it into a fine dust, and sprinkled it into the tubes that spiralled into the bottles, that usually held blaze powder.

But now, staring down at the awkward potion he’d brewed using the substitute power, Techno realised how stupid he’d been. Usually, the only change between water and an awkward potion was its consistency — the potion being a far more viscous liquid — but this time the water had shifted into a shade of deep blue. That proved that there was some sort of magic at work, at least, but he doubted it was what he wanted. Of course it wasn’t what he’d wanted. Magical experimentation, especially when it was _this_ impromptu, never worked out well.

But… 

Techno grit his teeth together and threw a glance at Tommy, at the weak, shallow rise and fall of his chest. He steeled his resolve. He couldn’t stop.

He pulled out a ghast tear, held his breath, and dropped it into the potion. The brewing stand pulsed with a wave of power as the crystallised tear was absorbed into the potion, and the liquid shifted into a murky shade of red. It lacked the usual sheen of purple that came with potions, instead pulsating with a regular blue glow.

It didn’t look very safe. It didn’t look very safe at all.

Techno gingerly picked up the bottle, watching as the liquid, which was far thinner than a potion should be, sloshed around inside.

He crouched by Tommy’s side, lowered his head as he weighed his options, each as unappealing as the other.

Potions could be a fatal treatment.

Pneumonia could be a fatal infection.

 _Improper_ potions could be fatal, period.

The voices were speaking too quietly for him to make out their words, but the frenzied, panicked tones of their mutterings told Techno all he needed to know. They were arguing amongst themselves. They were just as worried as he was.

Tommy exhaled a gargling, choked breath. In the otherwise silent the room it seemed suffocatingly loud.

The lack of an inhalation seemed even louder.

Techno’s head snapped up, his eyes wide.

 _No, no, no,_ the voices chanted, suddenly loud and clear enough for him to understand.

Techno dropped the potion in his haste to raise his hand to Tommy’s throat, feeling desperately for the weak, fluttering pulse that would be there. That _had_ to be there.

_No, no, no, no._

Beneath his trembling fingers, the skin was still.

The voices let out a keening wail of despair.

Tommy’s heart had stopped beating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOLLY MADE ANOTHER [ANIMATIC](https://youtu.be/9NRDi_pw-wU), OF THE FINAL SCENE OF THIS CHAPTER! (It says chapter 13 in the title because when i posted this chapter it was originally chapter 13, but then i moved the ghostbur interlude)


	15. Totem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2021! Here’s to it hopefully being better than 2020 lmao
> 
> The temptation to make this a Phil POV was so strong but I resisted

Techno dropped his head into his hands, holding back the snarl that threatened to rise from his throat. “Fuck,” he muttered. He stood and turned sharply, only barely resisting the urge to punch something. “ _Fuck_.”

Behind him, the totem clutched in Tommy’s hand began to glow with bright hues of yellow and green as its magic was activated. Techno didn’t want to watch, refused to see the evidence of his own failure.

Techno slammed his fist into the wall of his cabin. The wood cracked and splintered under the force of the blow. All the anger and frustration and _fear_ he’d been bottling up over the past however many days, as he watched Tommy slowly waste away and all his efforts to help him fall short of what his brother needed, were finally coming out in a torrent.

Techno clenched his eyes shut. His turbulent emotions had made the voices, already loud, grow until they were practically deafening. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest and wrists and temples. It was loud. It was too loud. It was all too loud.

Surely one totem would be fine. Surely Tommy would be okay. Surely it wouldn’t do to him what it had done to Techno.

It was just one totem.

His soul would be fine.

The cabin exploded in a shower of green and yellow. The light shone from within Tommy’s body, sparks flying from his eyes and mouth and bathing the cabin in the blinding light.

Techno let out a frustrated, defeated groan.

He couldn’t be angry when Tommy awoke. His brother could mistake it as being directed at him, and, if he did so, would react accordingly. In the hyperactive state Techno knew he would be in as the effects of the totem wore off, that could be disastrous. So Techno opened his eyes, took a deep breath to calm himself, and turned back around.

The light around Tommy had faded but for a dull glow emanating from his chest and head.

A visible haze of magic hung around him, indicative of the buffs the totem had granted him.

He was breathing.

His skin was a healthy pallor.

The totem had healed him.

Techno had failed.

Tommy’s eyes snapped open, bright and wide and full of a wild energy and fervour. He shot into a sitting position, practically vibrating with the power of the totem, and glanced around the room. His eyes settled on Techno and a jubilant grin stretched over his face.

“Technoblade!”

Techno hid his misgivings behind a strained smile. “Hello, Tommy.”

Tommy shoved the blankets off his legs. “You know, Techno, I just had the strangest dream. It…” his brows furrowed slightly as he swung his legs off the side of the bed. “It wasn’t very nice. Not at all. You did some, uh, bad things.” His eyes widened again. “Oh! And I lost my—”

Tommy was cut off with a yelp as he pushed himself to his feet and tumbled to the ground.

“...foot,” he finished slowly, staring down at the stump of his leg.

Techno sighed. “It wasn’t a dream, Tommy.”

Tommy shook his head earnestly, looking back up at Techno and seeming to forget about his leg entirely. “But it had to be! ‘Cause at the end of it I died.”

Techno knelt down and held out a hand to help Tommy to his feet. “I took precautions.”

Tommy laughed, ignoring Techno’s proffered hand, seemingly content to remain on the floor. “You can’t take precautions against dying, Techno.”

“You have a lot to learn about the world.”

“Well I think you’re just being stupid,” Tommy said with finality.

Techno stared blankly at his brother for a few moments before heaving a sigh and pushing himself to his feet. “Give me a moment,” he said, making his way across the cabin, to the kitchenette.

Over the years, Techno had never seen a reaction quite like this one to using a totem of undying. Of course, everyone reacted differently — it was the very nature of the magic — but the effects of totems often manifested by making the user lash out, enhancing their negative emotions, making them aggressive or scared. That, paired with the superhuman power and strength that came with the totem, could have disastrous consequences.

In this case, however, Tommy’s magic-addled mind seemed to be refusing to, or _unable_ to, come to terms with its situation. Techno didn’t know what exactly was going on — whether it was just confusion or delirium or something more severe like amnesia — but he wasn’t especially worried.

Effects of using one totem almost always faded.

It was using multiple that had permanent consequences.

Either way, it was Techno’s hope that the magic-nullifying properties of milk would help speed up the process. So he grabbed a glass, filled it with milk, and brought it back to Tommy.

His brother was staring at him with a slightly furrowed brow and a vacant, confused sort of expression, as though he wasn’t sure exactly what either of them were doing there. 

Techno knelt beside him and wordlessly held out the glass. 

Tommy took it, glanced down at it, and then up at Techno. “Should I… drink it?”

Techno nodded patiently.

Tommy shrugged and tipped the glass back. Techno let out a relieved breath as the haze of magic faded. Tommy’s shoulders slumped.

“How do you feel?” Techno asked softly.

Tommy blinked, clenched his eyes shut, shook his head slightly, then opened his eyes again. The absent, glazed look was gone. “Whoa,” he said. “This feels really fucking weird.”

“In a good way or a bad way?”

“I dunno. It’s like I’m… I dunno how to explain it.”

Techno raised an eyebrow. “An incredibly astute description right there,” he said dryly.

“Oh shove off,” Tommy groaned, setting the glass to the side and leaning back until he lay against the floorboards. “It’s in a bad way.”

“Yeah,” Techno sighed. “Yeah, I think I know how you feel. I’ve had… _many_ similar experiences.” He knelt by his brother, sliding his arms underneath him and pulling him up. “C’mon, let’s get you back to bed.”

“Don’t treat me like that. I’m not a child.”

“Of course not, Tommy. But you _were_ literally just lying on the floor.”

“You’ve got a point,” Tommy admitted as Techno lay him back onto the mattress.

Techno snorted. “Of course I do,” he said. “Lie here a moment, I need to go…” he threw a glance at the brewing stand set in the corner of the room. Murky red potions sat in two of its three plates “...clean up.”

Tommy followed his gaze. “What the fuck is that?” he asked as Techno stood and made his way over to the brewing stand.

Techno sighed. “Well, I wasn’t just going to let you die.”

“And so you gave me _that_ potion?” Tommy cried incredulously. “That— that _literally_ looks like shit.”

Techno shot him a half-hearted glare and didn’t miss the way it caused Tommy to wince back slightly with a muttered apology.

Techno quashed the concern that rose at Tommy’s reaction, and instead allowed a reassuring smile to spread over his face. “It’s ok, Tommy. I know it looks like shit and didn’t end up giving it to you. I was just— I panicked. Making it was all I could think to do, but by the time I’d made it, you were already… well, you know.”

Tommy nodded slowly, his brow furrowing. “Yeah…” he said slowly. He inhaled, and seemed to be about to ask something, but then exhaled sharply and fell silent.

Techno picked the two potions off the brewing stand and scowled down at them. The effort he’d put into making them, the hope he’d allowed himself to feel as he’d brewed them, all of it had been for nothing. He stalked over to his window and tipped the potion out. It sizzled and steamed rather concerningly as it came into contact with the snow.

Definitely wouldn’t have been safe to drink, then.

Techno set aside the now-empty bottles and made his way back to Tommy, who was watching him warily. “Sorry,” Techno muttered.

Tommy smiled, a rather forced expression. “It’s okay,” he said, though there was still a fearful spark in his eyes.

Techno made an effort to relax and make his demeanour as calm and unthreatening as possible. “I’m not frustrated at you,” he said. “I’m frustrated at myself.”

Tommy nodded unsurely. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, of course.”

Techno sat heavily on the chair by Tommy’s bedside. “I’m...” he let out an uncertain little laugh, to try to alleviate some of the awkwardness that had settled over the cabin. “I’m just glad you’re ok.”

“Thanks, Techno.”

Techno let out a little huff of breath. “Yeah, it’s… it’s no problem.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Techno stood again and walked over to one of his cabinets. Tommy’s eyes tracked him as he first pulled out a woollen set of clothes, a fur cloak, thick gloves, and a sturdy pair of boots. Techno glanced down at the boots, sighed, and put one of them back in the cupboard.

Techno crossed the cabin again and dumped the clothes on the bedside table. He set the boot on the ground, so that it sat next to the wooden prosthetic that also lay there. “Here,” he muttered. “Even with the fire, it gets cold.”

Tommy blinked uncomprehendingly at the clothing, then glanced up at Techno. “Thank you,” he said, a little disbelievingly.

Techno grunted noncommittally and turned back to the cabinet as Tommy reached for the clothes and began pulling them on.

He opened it again and, this time, withdrew a whetstone.

Techno carried the stone to the table and set it down, before sitting behind it. He threw a glance at Tommy, who was watching him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, and said, “I’m going to pull out a dagger. It’s just to sharpen it.”

Tommy’s eyes widened fractionally, and he nodded quickly.

Techno, taking that as a go-ahead, unsheathed his weapon and began inspecting it for blemishes or chips. Enchanting daggers was always a pain, as the smaller vessel made it more difficult for magic to be contained within it. This meant that small weapons like them were used far less often in combat, as enchanting them with things like unbreaking and sharpness was far more difficult, and that resulted in them being less effective and requiring more maintenance.

Techno, of course, still used daggers, because they were useful and if that meant sacrificing more of his time to taking care of it, then so be it.

He finished his examination with a sigh — there was a lot of work that needed to be done — angled the blade against the whetstone, and began dragging it back and forward.

Soon, the cabin was filled with the grating scrape of the dagger being sharpened.

Techno often threw glances at Tommy, who lay on the mattress, watching him cautiously, remaining rather uncharacteristically quiet. Though there was still tension in the air of the room, it had settled down into something far milder than what it had been before. Now, the silence they sat in was more of a companionable one.

Techno’s stomach churned as he was finally allowed a break, and the true realisation of what he’d done settled down on him.

He had used a totem on Tommy.

He had failed to properly treat him, and Tommy’s soul had paid the price.

Techno grit his teeth and pushed the edge of the blade harder against the whetstone, the only outlet for the frustration and anger that rose unbidden.

He heard a slight rustling and glanced up to see that Tommy had stiffened and was watching Techno’s hands, and the dagger he held in them, with wide, fearful eyes. Techno took a somewhat guilty breath and forced himself to relax, lessening the pressure on the stone and slowing his strokes back down.

He took note of the way some of the tension drained from Tommy’s shoulders, and, from then, made sure to keep his strokes as calm as possible.

Internally, though, he was still fuming.

He had promised himself that he would heal Tommy, sworn to himself that the totem wouldn’t have to be used, would just be a precaution.

But he had lied to himself.

He’d had to resort to a fucking totem of undying.

The voices pounded against the walls of his skull.

Techno cast another glance over to Tommy. His brother’s gaze was lowered, now, his brow furrowed in concentration. After a few moments, he seemed to come to a decision. He raised his eyes, and they widened slightly as they met Techno’s crimson ones.

Techno raised an expectant eyebrow.

Tommy paused for a moment, then took a breath and launched into the question Techno could tell he’d been itching to ask. “That thing you made me hold, the, uh, ‘precaution’… what was it?” he asked hesitantly. “Because I died, Techno. I’m on my last life, and I died. And then I woke up, and everything felt like it was… _clouded_. I couldn’t focus on anything, my memories felt scattered and disorganised. I’d look at one thing and then forget it the next moment. It was… it just felt _wrong_. And then you gave me the milk, and it faded.”

Techno’s heart sank and he set aside his dagger with a sigh. As much as he hated it, he knew this had been coming since Tommy had awoken. “It’s called a totem of undying,” he said. “It’s… well, it’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“So it gives you extra lives? How do you get them?”

“There’s a type of mob called evokers that drop them. You find them in woodland mansions.”

Tommy brightened slightly, his eyes sparkling with a sudden realisation. “Why don’t we go kill more evokers, then? Sure, waking up didn’t feel great, but we could practically become immortal!”

Techno shook his head emphatically. “No, Tommy. You can’t— there’s a reason I didn’t tell you what the totem was. There’s a _reason_ you felt that way when you woke up.” The words came out faster than Techno usually spoke, with a frantic air that was so unlike his usual monotone. “Evokers — the process they go through to make their totems, it’s… well, it’s _vile_. They’ve spent years experimenting with spirits, working out how to harness them and transform them into new lives for themselves. Totems, they leech away at your very _being_. If you thought you felt bad when you woke up,” Techno shuddered slightly, “you don’t… you don’t want to use any more than one. You don’t want to use _one_ to begin with. Trust me.”

Tommy was staring at Techno with wide eyes, driven speechless by his uncharacteristic forcefulness. “How do you know any of this?” he asked quietly. “Are you really sure? These totems, they’re—”

“I’m sure, Tommy,” Techno cut in. He clenched his jaw. “I’m sure, but you really don’t want to know how.”

“Techno, please consider it, at least. These are extra _lives_ we’re talking about! We could literally save people! I’m on my last life, _Phil’s_ on his—”

At the mention of their father’s name, Techno tensed, his expression contorting from one of worry to a frustrated scowl. “I said _no_ , Tommy,” he snapped sharply. “You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about. You don’t— these totems are cursed. Their magic is fucking cursed. You’ve used one, sure, but you don’t— you haven’t— I know what they do. You don’t.”

Techno took in a deep, shuddering breath. The voices were loud. They were so, so loud. They did, after all, have a reason to be engendered by the current topic of conversation. Techno lowered his head to his hands, clenching his eyes shut, rubbing his temples, trying to make room for his own thoughts and emotions to be heard over the torrent of rage and frustration the voices created.

In doing so, he managed to miss the way his brother flinched back, his face paling, his eyes widening in horror. “Sorry,” Tommy muttered. “Sorry, Techno. I won’t— I won’t bring it up again. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Techno hissed out a breath through clenched teeth. He stood sharply, sending his chair skittering back across the floor. Tommy pressed himself further back into the mattress, his breath catching in his throat.

Techno shook his head slightly, as though trying to dislodge something. “Shut up,” he forced through gritted teeth, stalking across the room, his hands still raised to his temples. Tommy stared after him with huge eyes. 

“Shut _up_ ,” Techno repeated, louder this time. He lifted a hand and tore the door open, stepping out into the tundra beyond. The last thing Tommy saw was his hand curling around the sword at his hip, unsheathing the wickedly sharp netherite blade, before the door slammed shut and he was left in the now-empty room.

Tommy’s breaths came in panicked, shuddering gasps.

Techno was angry at him. Techno was _furious_ at him.

He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up so badly.

Oh god.

Oh no.

Tommy pushed himself up from the bed, glancing around the room frantically until his eyes landed on the prosthetic that lay by the bedside table. He leaned over and snatched it from the ground, bringing it to his leg and securing it quickly, incorrectly, in a few seconds, before slipping his left foot into the boot.

He didn’t know what he’d done. He didn’t know why Techno had gotten so worked up over the topic of the totems. He’d thought that they could be helpful, an upper hand over their enemies, a safety measure that would render death essentially meaningless. He should have dropped the topic as soon as Techno had begun to get angry. He hadn’t, though, and now Techno was gone.

Tommy’s eyes widened.

What if Techno had gone to get Dream?

Fuck, this was bad.

Tommy nearly overbalanced in his haste to push himself off the bed. He staggered across the room on shaking legs, only barely keeping upright on his prosthetic, his panic and adrenaline the only things keeping him going.

He had to get out.

Where could he go? 

Tommy took a few gasping breaths before he reached out to the door handle, but he hesitated before he opened it. 

He didn’t _want_ to leave.

Techno was his brother. More than that, Techno had been _kind_ to him.

( _But so had Dream, during those long, lonely nights when Tommy had cried into his shoulder about how alone he was, about how everyone had left him. So had Dream, when he had whispered reassurances about how he was there, how he would always be there, how he was Tommy’s only friend._ )

Techno had given him food and shelter.

( _But so had Dream, when he had supplied some of the materials Tommy needed to build Logstedshire. So had Dream, when he had brought scraps of food as ‘treats’ for Tommy’s good behaviour._ )

Techno had given him warm, clean clothes.

( _But so had Dream, when he had brought armour and tools to help Tommy with his endeavours. So had Dream, before he had forced Tommy to drop them into the pit that he'd then blown up._ )

There was a part of Tommy that whispered that his logic was flawed, that Techno had done so much more for him — that he had offered up magic and time and effort into caring for him, and that he wouldn’t do that if he didn’t truly care.

But Tommy knew he was lying to himself.

He knew he couldn’t stay.

Even if Techno wasn’t already planning to pull what Dream had, Tommy knew that his kindness wouldn’t remain. He was a burden, a bother, and if he remained then he’d undoubtedly end up pissing his brother off, annoying him to the point that he’d kill him or, worse, sell him out to Dream.

So Tommy grit his teeth and pulled open the door. He was instantly blasted by a wave of freezing air, but the clothing Techno had bundled him in (that he planned on eventually taking away) did wonders in staving off the chill.

( _Memories of hours spent trudging through the snow in nothing but pants and a thin shirt, of a foot freezing off and an arrow tearing through his shoulder, of hopelessness and despair and the tiny speck of light that lay in the compass around his neck, threatened to rise._

 _Tommy pushed them aside._ )

There were fresh footprints in the snow layered on the porch and surrounding the house, but Techno was nowhere in sight.

Tommy let out a relieved breath.

He cast one longing glance back at the warm interior of the cabin and then shut the door behind him. “You’ll be fine,” he muttered to himself.

He turned back around, and nearly leapt out of his skin.

There was a horse standing in front of him. 

Tommy stared at it in shock.

It was the same one he’d encountered the day he’d arrived at Techno’s cabin, the one that had saved his life and pushed him to go inside the house.

The horse let out a breathy, exasperated whicker.

“Shh,” Tommy shushed it quickly, glancing around nervously for a sign of his brother. “I’m leaving now. You can’t stop me.”

The horse snorted and tossed its head slightly, as though in protest.

Tommy ignored it and stumbled across the porch, clinging tightly to the rail to keep himself upright. The horse trailed after him. He got to the edge of the rail, took a trembling, unsure step forward, and nearly overbalanced. His arms windmilled out to the side and caught on the animal’s neck, which ended up being the only thing that stopped him from faceplanting.

The horse stomped its feet, snorting again.

Tommy groaned, refusing to consider the fact that, without its help, he would currently be lying in the snow. “What the fuck do you want?”

The horse lowered its head and nudged him forward. 

“Whoa!” Tommy exclaimed, clutching desperately onto its mane as his prosthetic leg threatened to give in. “Where are you going?”

The horse let out an annoyed whinny and shoved its head into his side again.

“Fucking hell!” Tommy yelped. “I’ll go! Fine, I’ll go! Where— where are you taking me?”

The horse, of course, did not answer the question, and it was all Tommy could do to keep a tight grip on its coat as it led him around the side of the house. As they moved, he began to register the sound of repeated, rhythmic pounding, followed shortly by grunts of anger and exertion.

“Wait, what are you—”

The colour drained from Tommy’s face as they rounded the corner and Techno came into view, standing in front of a tree, his sword drawn. He was slashing at it with wide, powerful strikes, leaving wide, deep gouges in its bark. His face was set in a mask of fury and wrath, and Tommy could see that his mouth was moving but couldn’t make out the words he was saying.

“Fuck no,” Tommy said, pushing away from the horse and staggering away from his enraged brother. “Are you _trying_ to get me killed? I’m not going to—”

The horse interrupted him with a loud neigh, and Tommy somehow managed to pale even further.

Techno turned from the tree, his eyes widening as he saw the horse standing there. Thankfully, Tommy was blocked from his view, but that almost certainly wouldn’t remain the case.

“Carl?” Techno asked through heaving breaths. He lowered his sword and began making his way over to the horse and, though he didn’t know it, his brother who was crouched behind. “What are you—”

Techno froze as he saw Tommy. His grip around his sword loosened momentarily before it tightened again so he could sheathe the blade.

“Oh,” he said.

Tommy cringed away from him. “I’m going, Techno. I promise, I’m going. I’m only here because your horse made me come. But I don’t— I’m sorry for talking about the totem. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m sorry.”

“Tommy, what are you talking about?” Techno asked confusedly, taking a step towards him, staring at him with a hard gaze.

Tommy took a few shuffling steps back, his pulse quickening. “Please don’t get Dream. Please don’t go get Dream. I’m going away, and you won’t ever see me again. I’m going—”

He cut himself off with a cry as his foot caught on a buried rock and he began toppling backwards. Techno lunged forward and caught onto his shoulder, saving him in the nick of time. Even through his many layers of clothing, he could feel that Tommy was shaking.

“Tommy, calm down. You’re ok.”

“I’m— what do you mean?”

Something in Techno’s eyes softened, guilt and understanding shining through. “I’m not angry at you, Tommy.”

“You’re not— what do you mean?” Tommy asked again, his mind refusing to comprehend what it was hearing.

Carl whickered softly, butting his head into Techno’s back. Techno staggered forward slightly and had to readjust his grip on Tommy’s shoulder until he was holding him in an awkward sort of half-embrace.

He shot his horse a glare. Carl stared back at him with innocent eyes.

Tommy, who had tensed slightly at the sudden movement, began to relax into Techno’s hold. “Are you really not mad?” he muttered.

“No, Tommy. Of course not. I'm sorry... I'm sorry it happened at all.”

“Oh. That’s good, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Techno said. “Yeah, of course. It’s good. You’re good. Tommy, what the hell did you think I was going to do to you?”

“Kill me,” Tommy said instantly, then his voice quietened slightly and he continued with, “Or, uh, or sell me out to…” he swallowed heavily before finishing with a whispered, “to Dream.”

The way Tommy spoke of his own death so unflinchingly, but fell quiet at the mention of Dream… it painted a rather grisly picture, and answered a question Techno had been wanting to ask for a long time.

Dream had done this.

Dream had done this to his brother.

Techno ruthlessly stamped down on the rage that threatened to rise at that revelation and told the voices, in no uncertain terms, to fuck right off. He couldn’t deal with them, not now, not when Tommy needed him.

Carl stomped his foot impatiently, and Techno shot him another glance, this one questioning.

The horse, as soon as Techno met his gaze, jerked his head emphatically towards the cabin. _“Go inside,”_ he seemed to be saying.

Techno huffed a breath. “Yeah, ok,” he murmured to the horse, keeping his voice low enough that Tommy wouldn’t hear. And then, to his brother, he said, with all the conviction and sincerity he could muster, “I would _never_ do that. I swear to you, Tommy. I will never hurt you. I will never let Dream near you. The only time you’ll have to leave the cabin is when you want to. Until then, you can stay for as long as you want. I promise.”

“That’s… that’s good. Thank you.”

As Techno stared down at his brother, he felt grief well in his heart. This, the way he was acting, was so unlike anything he’d seen before. This wasn’t Tommy. This wasn’t how Tommy should have to act. The shadows in his eyes and heart, the mental and physical scars he bore, weren’t things he should need to carry. What he’d gone through wasn’t something any kid should have to go through, let alone his little brother.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Let’s go inside. Let’s get you to lie down.”

“That sounds nice.”

Techno leaned down and scooped one of his arms behind Tommy’s knees and then, in one fluid movement, lifted him off the ground. 

Tommy tensed slightly but quickly relaxed as Techno muttered a few reassuring nothings.

Carl let out a neigh of approval as Techno started back towards the cabin. He trotted after them, only separating when they reached the porch and he instead settled into his still-ruined pen.

Techno still needed to fix that.

He pushed open the door and carried Tommy back inside, only allowing himself to breathe once his brother was once again set down on the bed. Techno stepped back and clenched his eyes shut.

The voices had calmed slightly, but they were still there, were still loud. His use of potions over the past few days had dispelled some of the relaxed, almost _friendly_ air they’d taken on during his retirement, and he’d grown complacent in their calmness which meant he’d lost much of his ability to control them.

That was what had led to his breakdown. 

The only reason he’d been able to stop a second one, when he’d come to the realisation of who the culprit of all this was, was due to his worry and concern for his brother.

He didn’t know how well he’d be able to hold them back if it happened again.

Techno took in a deep breath.

For now, he needed to get Tommy something to eat. While the totem had helped — slightly filled the hollows of his cheeks, somewhat combated the emaciation of the rest of his body — and meant that Techno wouldn’t have to be as cautious while easing him back into eating food, there was only so much its magic could do. After all, Tommy had barely eaten anything in weeks. Now that his pneumonia had let up, he had to practically be starving.

That, at least, was something Techno could do something about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Istg, Carl is the only thing keeping this family together
> 
> KURO DREW SOME EPIC [FANART](https://twitter.com/hiobowy/status/1345536604245524487?s=21) FOR THIS CHAPTER, OF WHEN TECHNO TURNED FROM THE TREE TO SEE CARL!!  
> AND WE’VE GOT SOME [MORE](https://twitter.com/Lemon_Biscuits/status/1345599613726814210?s=20) BY LEMONBISCUITS, OF TECHNO SEEING TOMMY!!  
> HERE’S [ANOTHER](https://twitter.com/meteorbluejay/status/1346010171831537664?s=21) BY METEORBLUEJAY, OF TECHNO CARRYING TOMMY BACK INSIDE!!!


	16. Arrival

Phil marvelled at his newly freed wings. He flexed the muscles slowly, gritting his teeth against the cramping pain that spiked through them but revelling in the feeling of sheer _freedom_ that came from the action.

His mood was dampened slightly as he began to spread his wings and found that the cell was far too small to allow a wide range of movement.

“Uh, Phil?” came Tubbo’s nervous voice, breaking him from his wonder. Phil turned his head to see the president standing at the back of the cell, his exit blocked by the wings that were brushing against both of the rough stone walls. “Do you think you could maybe… let me out?”

Phil stared at Tubbo for a long moment, his eyes instinctively flickering down to the key still clutched in his hand. 

Tubbo swallowed visibly, drawing the key close to his chest and taking a few scuttling steps backwards. “Y- you said you wouldn’t attack me.”

Phil’s eyes narrowed slightly. His mind was racing, full of thoughts, plans and possibilities that chased each other around, rapidly testing and proving and disproving themselves. He could keep his word, be compliant and remain here, alive, with his wings freed but ultimately just as much of a prisoner as he had been before. Even with his wings unbound, the idea of staying in this tiny, dirty little cell was... unappealing, to say the least. He could sway Tubbo further to his side, convince him to help with an escape attempt, but that could go wrong and would likely require him to manipulate and lie to the kid. He could take Tubbo hostage again, use him as leverage to get out of L’Manberg, but lose all the trust he’d built and risk something going wrong and possibly leaving him dead. He could knock Tubbo out and make a break for it, but that would also break their trust, and the chance of successfully pulling it off was even slimmer.

Phil clenched his jaw. He had promised Tubbo he wouldn’t attack him, and the kid had believed him. He trusted him. Phil could not, in any good faith, go back on his word like that. Not with all he knew Tubbo was already going through.

And so, after those few tense moments of deliberation, he eventually folded one of his wings back. Tubbo’s entire posture relaxed and he crept forward, watching Phil warily as he passed, and then fully calming once he stood between the metal bars of the cell and the prisoner they contained.

He turned and, with one last glance back at Phil, unlocked the door and stepped outside.

“Thank you,” Tubbo said carefully after he was out and Phil had still made no move to stop him. 

“Yeah, no problem mate,” Phil said with a careless shrug, stamping down the regret that threatened to rise as the president once again latched the door shut and locked him inside. He walked over to the very side of the cell and then, while facing the wall, began to stretch his wings back all the way.

In the confines of the cell, there was no way he could spread them both to the side — his wingspan was far too large — but by extending them backwards he was able to somewhat work around that restriction.

“Thanks, Tubbo,” Phil said quietly after stretching the muscles of his wings for a few moments. He’d been too caught up, first with marvelling over his freedom and then with considering the options he could take, to properly thank Tubbo for what he’d done. “Thank you so much.”

Tubbo, who had been staring at Phil’s wings with a mix of wonder at the sight of them and guilt at the state of them, perked up slightly at the thanks. “You’re welcome,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

Phil snorted slightly. “No need to apologise, Tubbo. Doing this was enough. Thank you.”

Tubbo sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah, ok. I just— I wish things were different.”

Phil folded his left wing, turned slightly, and stretched his right wing out to the side. “Don’t we all,” he said with a rueful smile as he craned his head to examine the wing.

Phil raised a hand to touch the feathers and nearly gagged. They were greasy and gritty to the touch, and the very feel of them sent shudders of revulsion down his spine. Now that they’d been disturbed, suddenly the itchiness, something he’d grown to ignore over the past five days, came back in a crash and all the displaced and bent feathers began to itch with a burning fervour.

Phil grit his teeth and raked a hand gently through the foul feathers, trying to get a feel for how many of them would be salvageable. About a dozen of them fell out and settled sadly to the floor. Phil stared silently down at them.

This was disgusting.

This was _shameful_.

“Is there anything that can help?” Tubbo asked quietly.

A cell as cramped and dirty as this one was not an ideal preening environment, and alone Phil would be unable to reach everywhere that needed to be preened, but letting him out wasn’t something Tubbo could do and the position of a preening partner was an intimate thing, taken only by the families or partners of avian hybrids — of which Tubbo was neither. So Phil shook his head, brought up a hand to run it down his wing again, and said, “Nah. I’ll be fine.”

Tubbo nodded unsurely.

A few more minutes passed, interspaced with silence and idle conversation, before Tubbo said, “I don’t think I can stay.”

Phil glanced up from his wing.

“I’ve been here for a while. Quackity… doesn’t like it when I do that.” Tubbo winced slightly, his voice quietening. “And I’m gonna have to tell him that I took off the clamps.” 

“Right,” Phil said. “Don’t let him treat you too badly, yeah? You’re the president, not him. Remember that.”

Tubbo hesitated momentarily before he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

Phil watched with a heavy heart as Tubbo turned and made his way down the corridor.

He was pushing for the kid to stand up for himself more, to use the power he should, by all rights, already have from his position. But he knew it wasn’t working, not really. He wished he could do more.

Phil scowled down at his hands, which were gritty and with the dirt from his feathers.

He knew that, from his current position, he couldn’t.

Phil heaved a sigh and turned back to his wing, returning to his preening.

Maybe things would change. Maybe they wouldn’t.

Maybe he’d be able to help Tubbo more. Maybe he wouldn’t.

But there was nothing he could do but try.

-o-

By the time Tubbo returned, late the next day, Phil’s had properly stretched out the muscles of his wings, they were far cleaner than they had been in several days, and the majority of his displaced feathers had been straightened and returned to their proper place. There were, of course, areas of his wings that would require the help of another person to preen, but overall he was feeling rather content.

Tubbo, however, was not.

The president crossed the corridor with slow, trudging steps, looking more downtrodden than Phil had ever seen him. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes downcast, his fingers trembling slightly. He only raised his eyes to meet Phil’s once he stood right outside the cell.

Now that Phil’s wings were unclamped, he could move around the cell unhindered by the chains that had been hooked to the walls. Because of this, he was able to stand right by the bars — something he had taken full advantage of as soon as he’d seen Tubbo’s state. They now stood within an arm’s length of each other, and in that moment Phil longed to do nothing more than pull him into a comforting embrace and grant him the break he sorely needed.

The metal bars that stood between them, however, meant that would be impossible to achieve. So instead, Phil offered the only support he could. He spoke, his voice full of concern, over Tubbo’s wellbeing, and fear, over whatever must have happened, “Tubbo? Are you okay? Did Quackity… do something?”

Tubbo shook his head. “He… he wasn’t happy. But he didn’t…” he fell silent for a moment before whispering, “Dream’s in L’Manberg.”

Phil’s heart sunk.

That was bad.

Phil’s experiences with Dream stretched far back, and their relationship had always been a distant but hostile one. Before the man had manipulated Tubbo into exiling Tommy, before he’d supported and encouraged Wilbur’s maniac desire to destroy L’Manberg, even before he’d waged war on the nation his sons had been trying to build, they had been at odds with each other.

( _It had been years ago, but Phil would never forget what Dream and Techno had done. What they’d tried to achieve, before he’d managed to sway his son back to his side, before he’d managed to show him how wrong and immoral his actions were becoming._

_He remembered the souls the two had experimented with and destroyed in their fruitless quest._

_Techno had stopped. Techno had told him that Dream had too._

_Phil didn’t know if it was true._

_Techno had forgiven Dream._

_Phil never had._ )

Phil shuddered to think of what Dream was planning. His reason for being in L’Manberg couldn’t be good, not by any stretch of the word. He couldn’t allow his misgivings to show, though. It would only make Tubbo feel even worse, even more scared, than he already did. So instead, Phil gently asked, “What’s he done?”

Tubbo shook his head. “Nothing yet. I just…” his eyes darted to the right for a moment, before flickering back to Phil. “I don’t know what he wants. He’s— you know that hit list I told you about?”

Phil nodded slowly, realisation dawning in his eyes. “He’s on it.” It wasn’t a question.

Tubbo bowed his head. “Yeah,” he whispered. “But he’s _Dream_. I wouldn’t even know how the hell Quackity planned on going about killing him, except that he doesn’t even seem to want to.”

Phil cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t… I don’t even know, Phil. Quackity and Dream spent all of today discussing things together, privately. I don’t know what Quackity thinks he’s doing, because Dream’s on our hit list and yet he’s refusing to tell me what he’s planning and no one else is telling me anything either and I just _don’t know_ what’s going on anymore!” Tubbo took a shuddering breath, his head dropping into his hands. His next words came out as a whisper, “I just don’t know what to do.”

Phil’s mind was racing. An answer was beginning to form, an answer to a question he’d had since the beginning of his imprisonment, an answer that filled in far less blank spaces than it made. It made sense, but brought rise to ten times the questions it solved.

Tubbo would be able to confirm it, but now wasn’t the time to ask. For now, he said, “Do you have no one else you can go to? Fundy?” The name of his treacherous grandson felt sour on his tongue, but surely the fox would be willing to help Tubbo. “Can Fundy help you?”

Tubbo shook his head with a bitter little laugh. “All Fundy wants is validation. Validation from a figure he admires, who he sees as above him. I’m… well, I’m certainly not that.”

The _‘but Quackity is,’_ was left unsaid, but still rang loudly in the silence that followed Tubbo’s words. Phil shut his eyes and only barely withheld a groan. “What about Ranboo? I don’t know him well, but he seems… nice enough.”

“I suppose…” Tubbo said hesitantly. “He listens to me. He’s the _only_ one that ever listens to me, other than you. But I just— he’s got secrets too. Everyone’s hiding things. I just don’t know who I can trust, Phil.” Tubbo let out a huff of air. “Hell, I don’t know why I trust _you_ so much.”

“You’re the only one that visits me, Tubbo. There’s no one I _could_ spill your secrets to.”

“Ah. Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Tubbo’s eyes darted around the room uncomfortably. He shifted back and forward, opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. Phil didn’t fill the silence, instead waiting for him to speak of what was so obviously on his mind.

“I lied,” Tubbo eventually blurted.

Phil raised an eyebrow.

“I think I know what’s going on. Or at least, part of it.” Tubbo took a shaky breath. “I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but Phil could still hear it.

Once again, Phil didn’t speak. Truth filled silence and he knew, from experience, that often the best way to get people to keep talking was to remain quiet.

“Dream’s the one that told us of your involvement with Techno,” Tubbo said eventually, refusing to meet Phil’s eyes. “He told us you were a hybrid, gave us…” he nodded towards the clamps that lay, discarded, in the corner of the cell, “...those.”

Phil let out a sharp breath. That’s what he’d suspected.

And it’s what didn’t make sense.

( _He and Techno had just finished building the cabin when it had happened._

_Phil’s wings had been extended, stretched out freely, the silver feathers shining with a glossy purple sheen. He was inside the main room, sitting at a table, a mug of hot cocoa in his hands. Techno was, or at least had been, outside, caring for his turtles._

_The door slammed open and Techno burst in, his eyes wide, his breaths coming in heavy gasps. Phil instantly stood, concern and panic bubbling up in his chest._

_“You need to hide your wings,” Techno hissed, throwing a quick glance behind himself. “Quickly!”_

_Phil hastened to tuck his wings away, and he wasn’t a moment too soon._

_Dream came into view, strolling past Techno and walking, uninvited, into the cabin. His head was cocked slightly, he was staring directly at Phil and, even through his expressionless porcelain mask, he could feel the intensity of his gaze._

_Phil had begun to doubt that he had hidden his wings fast enough._

_After an extremely strained silence, Dream tore his gaze away from Phil, glanced around the cabin and said, casual as you please, “Nice place you’ve got here.”_

_The interaction that followed had been tense, with an extremely forced politeness. All of them remembered the events that had transpired all those years ago, but none of them mentioned it. At the end Dream had promised not to divulge the cabin’s location to any third party._ )

By informing the Butcher Army of Phil’s knowledge, he had not technically broken his word. But his motives didn’t make sense.

If Dream wanted them to hunt down Techno, he would not have bothered with making Phil the middle man, the one to give them his son’s location. He would have just outright told them where the cabin was.

Maybe it was some twisted morality, a desire to keep his promise — in technicality, not intent — and ensure that he remained true to his word. But Phil suspected it was more. 

Dream was playing at some sort of game.

The man had obviously seen his wings during that encounter, or some other time, and Phil knew for a fact that there were no other winged hybrids in L’Manberg or any of the surrounding lands. That meant that Dream had crafted or otherwise acquired the clamps with the specific intent of restraining Phil.

The implications of that were rather worrying.

Phil, of course, couldn’t let Tubbo know just how manipulative Dream was being. That would require him to tell the president that Dream knew of the location of Techno’s cabin and, no matter how much he liked the kid, he couldn’t trust him with that information.

So Phil arranged his expression into one of wide-eyed surprise and whispered a shocked little, “What?”

Tubbo nodded. “He visited L’Manberg a couple of weeks ago, I think. It was just after the hit list had been made. A few days after he arrived he asked to meet with us. Quackity said we should try and kill him then, and I tried to talk him down, but ultimately it was Fundy that managed to stop him. That was when Dream told us.”

“And you broke into my house a few days later?”

Tubbo winced, but nodded again. “Yeah. It was all I could do to stop them from just imprisoning you off the bat. But then… well, you know how it went. Sorry about that.”

Phil barely resisted the urge to start pacing. This answered some questions but raised far more. He dreaded finding out what it was that Dream was planning, what his true motives were. He dreaded seeing the effects the man’s presence would have on Tubbo. 

Phil’s wings rustled uneasily. He hated this feeling of being trapped, helpless, unknowing of what was going on around him. Tubbo visited him, sure, and told him what he could, but even without accounting for the kid’s warped perception of what was going on around him, Phil knew that he was withholding information. It wasn’t something he resented him for, of course — he was a prisoner and Tubbo was the president, it was only to be expected — but it still set him on edge.

And now that Tubbo had confirmed that Dream was the man who was responsible for this entire situation, proven that there was far more at play than Phil had considered, he felt more ignorant than he ever had before. 

If knowledge was power, then Phil had never been more powerless.

But he had become Tubbo’s pillar of support, and at a time like this, he needed to act confident and composed. So he said, with all the sincerity he could muster, “Thank you for telling me this, Tubbo.”

Tubbo allowed a small, sad smile to cross his face. “It’s no problem, Phil. Thank you for… well, thank you.” 

They lapsed into a silence that was filled with a mutual understanding of how dire their situation was. 

Tubbo was the one that broke it. He cast a quick glance at his watch, then down the hall, then turned to Phil with an apology in his eyes. “Dream said he wanted to meet with me. I need to go.”

Phil’s wings drooped slightly. He said, “Stand up straight. Remember that you’re the president, not them.”

Tubbo nodded. “Yeah.”

He walked down the corridor, exited through the door, and Phil was left with nothing but the company of crackling flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> preening oil who?
> 
> SOME [FANART](https://twitter.com/hiobowy/status/1346631071962685445?s=21) BY KURO OF PHIL PREENING HIS WINGS!! GO CHECK IT OUT AND GIVE THEM SOME LOVE!!


	17. Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys guys a stream didn’t happen a stream didn’t happen canon? What canon? All I know is this fic and Tommy and Techno who are brothers and friends and—

Phil feared what state Tubbo would be in when he returned the next day.

His worry led to an inability to sit still. His stomach churned, his wings flexed and rustled subconsciously, and the only real way he found he was able to rid some of his anxiety was by moving. He paced his cell over and over, glaring down at his feet, tugging pointlessly at the metal cuffs that were still wrapped around his wrists, that still hadn’t been removed.

Phil had no way to track time, but he was sure that hours had passed before he eventually collapsed against the wall of his cell and sunk down until he sat on the rocky ground. His wings curled around himself instinctively, providing a feathery layer of warmth and comfort, and, though he still felt slightly sick from his apprehension, he found himself slipping into an uneasy sleep.

The only time he was sleeping these days was when he was too tired to do anything else.

The next morning came, and the hours after he awoke seemed to drag on painstakingly slowly.

Phil was on his feet, hovering anxiously by the bars of the cell, as soon as he heard the prison door clang open. His wings were flared with unease, and he listened impatiently as Tubbo’s footsteps drew near.

The president’s pace was different from what it had been the day before, different from what Phil had expected to hear. When he’d walked down the corridor yesterday, his despondency had been audible in the slowness of his footfalls and the scrape of his boots dragging against the ground. This time, however, his footsteps were light and quick and seemed almost joyful in comparison.

When Tubbo came into view, Phil was surprised to see that there was a slight smile playing across his lips.

His apparent cheerfulness was unexpected, to say the least. 

“Are you okay?” Phil asked frantically, his hands clutching at the iron bars.

Tubbo nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine, Phil. Don’t worry.”

At the spoken confirmation of what Tubbo’s demeanour had already suggested, Phil’s breath came out in one sharp, relieved huff. His shoulders slumped slightly, the tension and stress draining from his wings and back in an instinctive, immediate response to hearing that Tubbo was unharmed.

“What happened? What did Dream want? Why did he meet with you?”

“He wanted to formally recognise L’Manberg as an independent nation,” Tubbo said, a slight incredulity lining his tone. “Since I uh, exiled Tommy, he’s sort of implied it, with his actions. But now it’s official. I never imagined something like this would happen.”

“But he did nothing… bad? Nothing at all?”

Tubbo shook his head. “Dream’s not done anything bad in weeks. Since… well, you know. I don’t know why I expected any different now.”

Phil’s eyes narrowed slightly as the initial wave of relief passed and his suspicions once again rose. “He doesn’t want anything in return?”

Tubbo shook his head. “I mean, he’s asked to stay in L’Manberg for a while, but that’s it. He said he wanted to see what we’ve done, what we’re doing, now that we’re not at war with the Dream SMP anymore.”

Phil nodded slowly, consideringly. “And how did other people respond?”

“It was just me, Dream and Quackity. And Quackity supported it, so I guess it’s fine?”

“Do you know what they spoke about, before your meeting?”

Tubbo shook his head. “No. Neither of them brought it up, so I didn’t pry. I assume it was about Technoblade, though. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I think the only thing Quackity would prioritise over killing Dream is getting to Technoblade.”

Phil regarded him silently, worriedly, considering what he knew.

Tubbo took his silence as an encouragement to continue speaking. “I don’t know why they spoke of it without me, though. It was just those two — Fundy and Ranboo also weren’t there. Even though them talking about Technoblade is the only thing I can think of, it really doesn’t make sense why they’d do it alone.”

Phil had a suspicion.

Quackity and Dream had to know about Tubbo’s visits to him. They had to know that the president told him countless things he shouldn’t. They had to know that he would tell him of whatever happened during a meeting he attended. 

What had Tubbo said to him, all those nights ago?

_“Quackity says we should force you to tell us where Technoblade’s house is.”_

Phil had a suspicion as to what they had discussed.

And it didn’t bode well for him or his son.

Phil swallowed back the fear that threatened to rise. Tubbo couldn’t know this.

Quackity was the Vice President. If Tubbo knew this, he’d almost certainly leap out from under their control and do something reckless to try to protect him. The moment Tubbo stopped acting as the figurehead Phil knew his subordinates were treating him as, the moment he became too independent to exert control over, he stopped being useful to them.

And for Quackity, true presidency was just one swing of a sword, one poisoned plate of food, out of his reach.

Tubbo _couldn’t_ know.

So Phil plastered a reassuring expression over his face and said, “I’m sure it’s fine. Maybe they weren’t even discussing Techno — maybe Quackity was just making sure Dream had good intentions.”

Tubbo nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, that would make sense!”

Phil dropped his head slightly, clenched his eyes shut and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he muttered, too quietly for Tubbo to hear. “It makes sense.”

Tubbo, ignorant of Phil’s turbulent emotions, began speaking again, “But Phil, do you wanna know what else happened today?”

Phil clamped down harshly on his fear and raised his head. “Mmm?”

Tubbo launched into his story, rattling off all the details of his day, explaining how he’d started construction on a new house and collected some resources and all the hundreds of other insignificant things he’d done.

Phil listened with a patient smile, nodding along, laughing where appropriate, interjecting with his own stories where he thought they’d fit.

His heart, however, was heavy with dread.

-o-

“Dream and I spent the day together,” Tubbo said, the next time he visited Phil. “Quackity said I should show him around L’Manberg, so I did, and from there we just sort of… hung out.” 

Phil crossed his arms. “You spent the day with Dream? Did he do anything to you?”

Tubbo shook his head with a small smile. “I’m okay, Phil. It was actually kinda nice. Really, I don’t think Dream’s all that bad.”

Phil’s stomach churned. “He’s not that bad. Uh-huh.”

“What’s wrong?” Tubbo asked, his smile dropping slightly as he picked up on the hybrid’s discomfort. 

Phil allowed his arms to drop to his sides, and he took a step towards the bars of his cell. He hadn’t gotten a proper rest since he’d been thrown in this godforsaken prison, he was tired and scared, and he had been hiding the true gravity of the situation from Tubbo for days, bottling up his emotions and not allowing any of his true dread to shine through. Tubbo couldn’t know, he _couldn’t_ , because if he did then he’d almost certainly act recklessly and Phil shuddered to think of what would happen to him then.

But now the president was standing here, had the audacity to say that Dream, that _Dream_ , was nice, that he wasn’t so bad, and Phil just couldn’t hold it back. He snapped, “Tubbo, are you hearing yourself? Dream’s not that bad? _Dream_?” He twisted sharply away from the president, his wings flared out slightly, the feathers ruffling with discontent. “You’re talking about the man that forced you to exile Tommy. You’re talking about the man that drove Wilbur to blow up L’Manberg. You’re talking about the _tyrant_ that’s been suppressing your nation since its birth! This is fucking _Dream_ you’re talking about!”

“But all that was in the past. Maybe he’s changed,” Tubbo said quietly. “You say Technoblade did, so why can’t Dream?”

“Tubbo, you don’t—” Phil’s hands tightened into fists. He took a deep breath, turning back to look at the president with a gaze that held all the worry and sincerity he felt. “Trust me, Tubbo. I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you but… you can’t trust Dream. You _cannot_ trust Dream.”

Tubbo took a step back, fidgeting nervously. “Phil you’ve said that a lot. About Quackity, too. The reason I was so scared of Dream’s arrival was because you’ve…you’ve made me think that people around me can’t be trusted. But I don’t know if it’s true.”

Phil clenched his jaw. He was being too forward, too forceful. He was in no position to assert any sort of control over Tubbo, over his actions. There was a reason he’d never outright said something like this, a reason he’d been subtle with his encouragement for Tubbo to get out from under Quackity’s control. The minute he overstepped his boundaries would be the minute the president stopped visiting him, the moment he lost any chance at helping him. And right now, his panic and fear were making him toe that line.

So Phil shut his eyes, bowed his head, took a breath, and allowed his frantic air to drain away as he exhaled. Dream was in L’Manberg, but he was playing a long game. It didn’t seem like he was planning to do anything immediately aggressive. Phil could work with that. He could still protect Tubbo.

So Phil raised his head and held his hands up in apology. “You’re right,” he said, and the words grated against his tongue. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

Tubbo stared at him for a long moment before his hands dropped to his sides and he let out a sigh. “I’m sorry too,” he muttered. “This meeting with Dream was just… it was nice. It was such a sharp contrast to everything else that’s been happening recently. I think… I _really_ think he might not be that bad, Phil.”

Phil bit back the scathing remark that clawed at his throat and instead allowed a small smile to cross over his face. “I guess you’re right. I’m happy for you, Tubbo,” he said. The lie tasted bitter.

Tubbo, always willing to forgive, never one to hold a grudge, smiled back at him. They slipped into another conversation. Neither of them touched on the argument they’d just had.

Phil really couldn’t believe he was doing this.

-o-

As the week progressed, so too did Tubbo’s faith in Dream and Phil’s hatred of the same man.

Tubbo had, on his fourth visit after Dream’s arrival in L’Manberg, admitted that perhaps he had been a little too quick to trust him. Phil had almost allowed himself to relax, to believe that his work was paying off, when Tubbo had followed his statement by saying that Dream had, however, continued with his kindness and now more-than-deserved his trust.

When Phil had asked him to elaborate, the deeds that Tubbo had listed had been worryingly simple.

“He listens to me,” Tubbo had said. “He supports my decisions. He respects my power as president. He cares about L’Manberg and its people. He cares about _me_. Phil, I promise, you can trust him.”

Phil had nearly screamed. The fact that _that_ was all someone needed to do in order for Tubbo to trust them, the fact that his standards were set so low, spoke at length of how little the kid had been offered.

The fact that it was all _he_ had done to gain the kid’s trust also wasn’t lost on Phil.

He had realised, in that moment, just how hypocritical he would look to an outsider. He had realised why Tubbo had reacted so negatively when Phil had said so sharply and directly not to trust Dream. He had realised that, to anyone that didn’t possess the knowledge he did, his actions would truly come off as malicious and resentful.

But Phil knew that Dream had more at play. Why else would he tell the Butcher Army that Phil knew where Techno’s house was, and not just outright tell them the cabin’s location? Why else would he tell them of Phil’s secret status as a hybrid and find and hand them a pair of clamps _specifically_ for the purpose of restraining his wings? Why else would he continue to treat Tubbo with a kindness that Phil _knew_ he didn’t feel?

And even with what Phil had managed to gather, there was one glaring hole in his knowledge. Dream’s motive. The man had no discernible reason for doing what he was. It had been something he had agonised over, raking his mind for any clue as to what he had to gain out of all this. But each time Phil had come up empty.

Dream had everything. What more did he gain from doing this?

This was not, of course, taking into account all the other loose threads that surrounded his situation. What role did Quackity have to play in all of this? Or all the other L’Manbergians? How did their hit list play into things? 

Those questions, and a hundred more, raced through Phil’s mind each night, but each time he came up with an answer it found some way to conflict with the rest of his knowledge. There was so much going on around him and Phil didn’t have a proper grasp on any of it.

He was right about Dream, though. He knew he was right about Dream.

But all Phil’s efforts to prove it to Tubbo were futile.

-o-

“I’m not going to be coming here tomorrow,” is what Tubbo started their next conversation with.

Phil arched an eyebrow curiously. “Oh?”

Tubbo nodded. “Dream said I should go to Logstedshire. He told me that Tommy missed me, wanted to see me.”

Phil scowled slightly at the mention of Dream, but nodded anyway. “I’ve been telling you that you should visit him.” And it was true. He had, numerous times, encouraged Tubbo to visit Tommy in exile, but each time his suggestion had been shot down by Tubbo’s reluctance to face his friend, his worry over how Tommy would react to seeing him. Phil continued, his tone light, “I feel a bit betrayed that you’d only decide to do it after Dream, of all people, told you too.”

Tubbo sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know, I’m sorry. But I just— Dream’s the only one that’s seen Tommy in so long. You know this. I wasn’t sure if Tommy would actually want to see me… but now that Dream’s said he does, I know for sure! Do you think he’ll be angry at me for taking so long…?”

“Well, you know how Tommy is. He’s gonna feel betrayed, probably. And he’ll be stubborn about letting you know that.” There was no point in Phil telling Tubbo that he should have visited Tommy sooner — the petty ‘I told you so’ would get them nowhere. So instead, he said, “You’re gonna have to apologise for waiting this long, though. Bring him a present or something.”

“Yeah I was going to, but I’m not really sure what to get… do you have any ideas?”

Phil considered him for a moment before his eyes widened slightly in realisation. He took a moment to count off the days he remembered being here, before giving up and asking, “Wait, what’s the date?”

A small smile spread across Tubbo’s face. “December 22nd.”

“It’s your birthday tomorrow!” 

Tubbo’s grin widened. “I wasn’t sure if you were gonna remember! I’m so glad you did.”

A tiny drop of bitterness rose at Tubbo’s words. He hadn’t been sure if Phil was going to remember? What, had he _expected_ Phil to remember? For all his consideration, the president hadn’t thought to bring him any sort of clock or calendar, or any other device to keep track of the hours and days that passed. Nor, for that matter, had he brought him anything else to combat the monotony of what his life had become. 

But Phil let none of that show and said, “Oh, happy birthday, Tubbo! You’re turning 17, right?”

Tubbo nodded eagerly. “Yeah! Thank you! It’s why I chose tomorrow of all days. I’m gonna celebrate with Tommy! I’ve baked a cake for us to share, but I’m not sure what else to bring. ”

Phil shrugged. “It’s a gift from you, not from me. You’ve probably thought of a music disc, though — I’m sure that’s something he’d like. But other than that, uh, maybe you can bring him some resources? It’s simple, but he’d probably appreciate that, what with... being away and all.”

Tubbo considered him for a moment before he nodded. “Yeah, those sound good!”

“Now, you can’t keep Tommy waiting. He’s gonna be so happy to see you.”

“Of course!” When Tubbo started down the corridor, there was a spring in his step. He pulled the prison door open. “Thanks, Phil!”

Phil’s eyes slid shut and he allowed his cheerful facade to fade as the door slammed shut behind Tubbo. He let out a deep sigh. “No problem, Tubbo,” he muttered quietly, to the empty room.

Though he didn’t let it show while Tubbo was around — he didn’t want the kid to worry about him, not when he couldn’t actually do anything about the situation — Phil was, for a lack of a better term, _done_. Tubbo thought that when he’d taken the clamps off his wings he’d made everything better. And while it had helped, to an extent — Phil could preen his feathers now, could certainly take better care of his wings, and the crushing weight of the magic was gone — he still wasn’t well. Things were better, sure, but only slightly. Phil was just so, so tired.

It wasn’t from lack of sleep — though his current conditions really didn’t encourage a healthy sleep schedule. No, it was instead a bone-deep weariness that he’d only be able shake off when he was truly freed and allowed to once again spread his aching wings and soar through the open skies. Because even without the clamps, there was only so far they could stretch within the confines of his cell. His wings were stiff and sore from their lack of movement, their lack of flight, and it was taking its toll on them. When the wings of an avian hybrid wasted away, so too did the hybrid themselves.

Phil knew that Techno had probably sent him numerous messages through their communication system and that his son would be worrying over the lack of response. He knew that Tubbo was being manipulated and lied to and that even his best efforts were doing nothing to get the kid out from under the thumb of Quackity and Dream. He knew that something was being planned, something that spelled out disastrous consequences for himself and those he cared about.

He knew that he wasn’t going to be getting out of this cell for a long, long time.

Phil knew he might die here.

It was those morose thoughts that lulled him into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re all trying their best  
> (You all know what Tubbo’s gonna find)


	18. Rehab

Rehabilitation was going to be a slow process.

Techno was by no means a physiotherapist, so it was going to be a learning journey for the both of them. Now that Tommy was healed of both his injuries and illnesses, Techno would, at the very least, be able to properly focus on helping him adjust to his amputated leg.

Before, Techno disregarded any proper procedure and skipped straight to walking on his prosthesis. But this time, no matter how much Tommy griped and groaned about how slow the process was, he was going to do it right.

The information he’d managed to scrounge up on the topic said that, after the amputee was in a stable condition and before beginning to use a prosthetic, treatment of the amputated limb should include stretches and other such exercises, as well as learning how to prevent contractures — that is, tightness in the soft tissues that restrict the movement of the limb.

And, even though it was probably far too late to return to those first steps and even though, at this point, they would probably be useless, Techno would be damned if he didn’t do them anyway. For all he knew, the exercises were vital for rehabilitation and by skipping it originally he’d already butchered the process.

So one of the first things he did was take away Tommy’s wooden foot.

“Give me your prosthetic,” Techno said bluntly, holding out an expectant hand, just after Tommy had finished eating the meal he had given him — the first proper food he’d eaten in weeks. 

Techno had expected resistance. He had expected an argument. He had expected Tommy to shout in protest, to swear at him with a multitude of colourful insults and stubbornly refuse to hand the prosthetic over.

He had, as much as he’d hated the idea, half expected to have to forcefully remove the prosthesis from Tommy’s leg.

What he had not expected was his brother to shrink in on himself, reach down with hands that trembled ever-so-slightly, and begin to fumble to undo the bindings that held the prosthetic to his calf.

Techno narrowed his eyes slightly at the uncharacteristic behaviour but decided not to comment on it.

After a few moments passed and Tommy continued to struggle to properly detach the foot, Techno heaved a sigh and took a step towards him, meaning to help with the process.

Tommy flinched violently, the shaking in his hands intensifying and only serving to make it harder for him to remove the foot. “I’m getting it off,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry I’m having trouble. But I promise, I’m going to give it to you.”

Techno instantly backed away in response to Tommy’s panic, raising his hands in a placating gesture, resolving to give him the space he obviously needed. Tommy relaxed minutely.

It took a few more long, tense moments before he finally managed to remove the foot. He held it up to Techno, who took it and began crossing the room to stow it away until Tommy was ready to use it.

He was stopped, however, as Tommy spoke up. “Don’t you want anything else?”

Techno turned slightly, a question on his lips, but froze when he saw that Tommy had undone the latch of his fur cloak and was holding the garment out to him.

“Put that back on,” he scolded. “You’re gonna get cold.”

Tommy stared at him uncomprehendingly.

Techno took a deep breath. Maybe explaining his reasoning behind taking the prosthetic would help. “I’m doing this to help you, Tommy,” he said. He held the foot up slightly. “Letting you have this before was a bad idea. You can’t be trusted not to fuck yourself over. But I’ll let you have it back once you learn.”

Tommy paled and nodded quickly with a sharp, jerky moment. He retracted his arm, hugging the fur cloak to his chest, staring up at Techno with wide, horrified eyes. It was as though he was seeing something else. “Yeah. Sorry,” he whispered. “I won’t do it again. I’m really sorry.”

Techno didn’t understand why his actions and words were provoking such strong reactions, but it didn’t take a genius to deduce that it was due to something that had happened during his exile, before he’d arrived at the cabin. The thought of his brother’s treatment brought forward a tide of frustration as rage and the volume of the voices, that had been growing steadily louder over the course of the interaction, swelled to a new height.

 _Dream did this,_ they screamed. _Dream, Dream, Dream. Find him. Kill him. Blood for the Blood God._

Techno clenched his eyes shut and turned sharply, before Tommy could see the scowl that crossed his features at the thought of Dream’s name. He stalked across the room and placed the prosthetic on top of one of his cabinets, keeping it safely out of Tommy’s reach until he was more ready to use it.

By the time he turned back, he had calmed slightly. He made his way back to the bed and crouched by it, shooting Tommy, who still hadn’t relaxed, the most reassuring smile he could. “It’s not permanent,” he said quietly. “I promise you, I’m going to give you your prosthetic back. You just need to be more ready before you can walk on it. Right now, you’ll only end up hurting yourself.”

“Yeah, of course,” Tommy muttered. “What do I have to do?”

“Mainly exercises and stretches. We can start now, if you’d like?”

Tommy nodded. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

Techno stood and sat down on the chair set by the bed. “We’re gonna start with stretching out your leg. Extend the joint slowly, carefully, and make sure to stop if you feel any cramping or pain. Yeah, just like that. That’s perfect, good job. Now stop, and bend your knee again. Once again, take the movement slowly and stop at any time if you need to.”

Tommy followed Techno’s instructions carefully, first bending and unbending his knee, then rotating his joint, then maneuvering it in a variety of other directions and ways. He stopped regularly, wincing as his muscles tightened and cramped painfully, and each time he would shoot a fleeting, fearful glance up at Techno, as though scared of what his reaction would be.

Techno made a conscious effort not to react, instead keeping up his constant stream of instructions and reassurances, stating over and over that Tommy was okay, that he was doing well, that he could stop if he needed to or if he felt any pain. He found that, over the course of the session, the nervous glances grew more and more infrequent as Tommy began to gain trust in Techno’s sincerity.

As the minutes dragged on and Tommy’s confidence grew, so too did how vocal he was regarding his dislike of the physiotherapy. To be fair, his complaints weren’t completely unfounded. There were only so many different exercises to do, and even if there had been a wider variety it still would’ve been a rather tedious process.

About forty minutes passed before Techno finally sat back with a sigh, the mixture of Tommy’s unrelenting complaints and his own boredom eventually growing too strong to bear. “That’s it for today,” he said.

“Oh fucking _finally_ ,” Tommy said. “Y’know, I was really starting to worry there that you were gonna drag that on forever.”

Techno levelled a half-hearted glare at him in response to his cheek. In reality, however, the return of Tommy’s characteristic brashness was rather relieving. It meant they were getting somewhere.

Not that he’d ever admit that to Tommy’s face, of course.

Techno slumped back into his chair, allowing himself to relax and his eyes to close. “I’m going to sleep now,” he said. “Wake me if you need anything.”

Tommy scoffed. “You’re going to sleep? The sun has barely set.”

“Yeah, and I’m tired. It’s been a long day. You should probably sleep too.”

Tommy hesitated for a moment before allowing a devilish grin to stretch over his face. “ _Or_ , I could keep you awake,” he said conversationally. “You know, I’m actually really good at singing. They call me OperaInnit.”

Techno opened his eyes and glared over at Tommy, who was opening his mouth, presumably to demonstrate his singing prowess.

“I swear to god, Tommy,” he muttered, making sure to keep his tone lighthearted.

Tommy shut his mouth and grinned over at Techno, his eyes sparkling gleefully. “I’m just trying to help you! If you go to bed too early, you’ll just fuck up your sleep schedule. And anyway, if I sang now I’d be _gifting_ you the opportunity to listen to my beautiful voice.”

Techno rolled his eyes. “I hear enough of your ‘beautiful’ voice as is,” he said. “I would genuinely rather sleep with Carl than have to listen to your singing.”

Tommy pouted. “Fine then,” he said petulantly. “I’m too good for you, anyway.”

“Yeah, sure,” Techno muttered as he shut his eyes again. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“I’ll keep telling myself that, and I’ll keep being right!”

Techno let out a short, agreeable hum.

Tommy, apparently realising that Techno wasn’t going to continue rising to his bait, finally settled down onto his mattress. He _was_ actually feeling rather tired.

They quickly fell asleep.

-o-

Two days had passed since the totem had been used, Techno had taken Tommy’s prosthetic, and they had begun the physiotherapy. When Techno sat by the couch Tommy sat on to begin the session — this would be their third one — he could instantly tell there was something on his brother’s mind.

The signs were all subtle, barely noticeable, but there was something in the stiff way he held himself, the hard set of his expression, the almost contemplative gleam in his eyes, that told Techno something was off. Deciding not to mention it, to instead let Tommy open up when he was ready, he began the session.

It was the same exercises and stretches and the same few movements — rolling from side to side, sitting up and perching on the edge of the couch, moving safely to and from a chair — that they’d already gone through over the past days. They occasionally filled the time with idle chatter, but mostly just sat in silence. It took about twenty minutes before Tommy finally, properly spoke up.

“This exercise again? Seriously?” he asked incredulously as Techno instructed him to return to bending and unbending his knee. “That’s like the hundredth time you’ve told me to do this! I’m not gonna do it. You can’t make me do it.”

Techno raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Tommy glared back at him, crossing his arms resolutely. His eyes shone with something Techno couldn’t quite decipher, something that ran deeper than his obvious annoyance.

“Tommy,” he said patiently. “This is for your own good. The more you do, the quicker you can walk.”

“I can walk _now_ ,” Tommy argued back. “You’re treating me like I’m some sort of baby, like I can’t do anything on my own. You’re not even letting me _try_ to walk!”

“It won’t be too much longer,” Techno said. “I just want to make sure you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now!” Tommy insisted. “Even with as fragile as you seem to think I am, you’ve got to see that I’m ready, that I can walk!”

“You’re not fragile, Tommy. I know you’re not fragile,” Techno said placiatingly. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”

Tommy glared at Techno as the words that had meant to calm him down only served to rile him up more. “Do you not realise that you’re still doing it? You’re just proving my point!” Tommy pressed his hands against the couch and made to push himself forward, to his feet, but quickly seemed to think better of the action. “Techno, please, just let me walk.”

Techno heaved a sigh. “It won’t take too much longer,” he repeated. “Just hold out for a few more days. Tommy, I’m doing this _for_ you.”

Tommy’s manner took a turn for the worse, his expression hardening into a scowl, his words and tone growing harsher and more biting. “A few more days? _Days_ , Techno? You can fuck right off with that. What _I_ think you should just give me back the damn foot now. We’ve already been doing this for three days and nothing’s changed! These exercises are useless.”

Techno lifted a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Tommy, I don’t—”

“Oh shut up, Technoblade,” Tommy scoffed. “You don’t need to pretend. You just don’t want me walking because you’re worried I’m gonna fuck up your house.”

A frustrated breath hissed through Techno’s teeth. “Just do the damn exercise,” he interrupted, his voice low.

“Fuck you!” Tommy shouted, before continuing with his rant, “You’re completely right to think that! You don’t want me here, I _know_ you don’t want me here! So why are you wasting your time on these useless exercises? Why don’t you just throw me out already!”

Techno’s hands clenched into tight fists. “Tommy,” he said, and voice sounded dangerous even to his own ears.

“We both know I’m right, Techno. I only said the fucking truth. Now, what are you going to do about it, bitch?”

Techno’s patience, already stretched thin by everything that had happened over the past weeks, finally snapped. He shot abruptly to his feet, glaring down at Tommy, his breaths coming in sharp, angry huffs.

Tommy flinched back into the couch, clutching his cloak around him like some sort of protective shield, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

Techno took a step forward. As Tommy cringed back further, something that wasn’t fear flickered in his eyes. 

It took a moment before Techno recognised it for what it was. It was satisfaction. Tommy was feeling victorious.

It took another moment before he realised what his brother was playing at. He was testing him. Tommy wanted to see how Techno would react to such blatant disrespect.

And, judging by his apparent triumph, Techno’s rather forceful reaction had been what he’d expected, and had proved him right.

Techno’s eyes narrowed slightly. If Tommy had expected a reaction like this… what did that mean? Had his calmness and happiness over the past days just been a mask of the emotions, a facade of what he thought Techno wanted to see? All the progress Techno had thought they were making… was it all just a front?

Techno’s heart sunk at that realisation. He thought he had been helping, that they’d been getting somewhere, but maybe they’d still yet to leave square one.

How was it that everything he was doing, all the care he was taking, was just falling through like this? It had happened when he’d physically been dealing with Tommy’s illnesses, and was happening again now, with the emotional side of things. It seemed that Techno just couldn’t get anything right.

What should he say? How should he deal with the situation his angry reaction had thrown them into?

There was always the option of just avoiding it entirely.

That sounded pretty appealing.

“That’s it for today,” he finally said as the silence stretched too long for him to bear. He wasn’t sure how to feel. Techno turned, stalking across the room and roughly pushing the door open. “Next time we’ll start work on learning to properly put on and take off your prosthetic.”

He stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him, blocking himself from his cabin before Tommy even had the chance to respond.

He could have handled that better. He _should_ have handled that better. But it was all so much. _Everything_ was all so much. 

Techno’s steps were uneven as he made his way down the stairs of his porch and onto the snowy grass that surrounded his cabin.

Techno had assumed that, once Tommy’s injuries and sickness had healed, everything would be okay. He had assumed that it would only take a few days to teach him to walk, after which he would be able to turn his focus to finding and saving Phil from whatever situation he had gotten himself into. 

But Tommy needed so much more help than that. So much more help than Techno knew how to provide. Techno was so hilariously underqualified for this. He was trying his best, doing everything he could, but that interaction had proven that none of it was enough.

Techno leaned heavily against the stone wall of his cabin and buried his head in his hands.

 _Technohurt,_ the voices said quietly. It seemed they were in a calm mood, at least. _Technosad. Technolost._

“I’m not lost,” Techno said petulantly.

_Not physically. Mentally._

He squinted in confusion. “What do you—”

_Need Philza._

Techno stiffened. The two words rang in his head, repeated over and over by the chorus of voices that chanted them. After a moment, he heaved a sigh. “I guess you’re right. Phil would know what to do.”

_You also know. You are good. You help._

“I _try_ to help. I don’t end up doing it.”

 _Yes you do!_ they insisted. _Technohelp. Technodoctor. Save lives._

Techno laughed bitterly. “No, I don’t,” he said. An image flashed before his eyes. Tommy, lying in the bed, his body consumed by glowing hues of green and yellow. “I don’t save lives. I didn’t save Tommy’s life. I _couldn’t_ save his life. I had to resort to a– a fucking—” Techno took a shuddering breath, tangling his fingers into his hair and trying desperately to calm himself down. “I can’t save the lives that matter,” he finally muttered.

He pushed the voices aside as they began murmuring in discontent at his acrimonious response. At the moment they were, thankfully, mellow enough for him to be able to do so.

Techno lifted his head from his hands and cast his gaze towards the sky. It was a nice enough day, he supposed, if he didn’t account for what was actually happening in it.

If Techno were honest with himself, he knew that he deserved this. After everything he’d done to Tommy, to his friends, to his nation. This, what Techno was doing, the help he was trying to offer, was probably some subconscious cry for forgiveness. Not that he deserved to be forgiven.

Tommy was right not to trust him.

Techno groaned and tipped his head forward again, pushing himself from the stone wall. Moping would do him no good, but he also didn’t want to go back inside and face his brother.

One thing he still needed to do was repair Carl’s pen.

Techno walked over to the area where the fence had been. Carl stood inside, his head bowed slightly, his eyes closed. He was dozing. Techno resolved to let the horse sleep and ignored him while he made quick mental measurements of how much fencing he’d need. 

The trip to his storage room was a quick one. Techno kept quiet as he pulled a few fences and fence gates from the chest he’d dedicated to wooden items and then made his way back outside. 

Carl had, by this point, blinked his eyes open and was now staring at Techno with something akin to grief.

“What’s wrong?” Techno asked quietly, carefully stowing the fences away and stepping up to his friend.

Carl stomped his hoof and nodded towards Techno. _“You.”_

Techno raised a hand to his chest, his brows furrowing confusedly. “What do you—” His eyes widened slightly in realisation. “Oh. Is it really that obvious?”

Carl bobbled his head up and down.

Techno let out a huff of a laugh. “I guess you’ve got me there. You’re probably the most emotionally intelligent one in this damn cabin.”

Carl snorted softly.

“Well, I’m sorry for waking you. I just gotta rebuild your pen. Shouldn’t take me too long,” Techno explained as he pulled the fences back into his hands.

Carl bobbled his head again, this time in understanding, and pranced around until he stood beside Techno, who allowed a small smile to stretch over his face.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he muttered as he began burying a fence post into the snowy ground. 

Carl snorted and tossed his head. _“Neither do I.”_

Rebuilding the fence was slow but relaxing work, the repetitive motion of pounding the wooden posts into the ground and then hammering the horizontal slats into place helping to calm Techno down.

He worked slower than he usually would as to give himself as long of a break as possible, and by the time he was finished the sun hung high in the sky. 

Techno petted Carl on the side of the neck and pulled out an apple as both a thank you for his support and an apology for taking so long to rebuild his fence. The horse gratefully took the treat and munched it slowly as he made his way into his new pen.

Techno turned back to his cabin and heaved a sigh. He’d procrastinated as much as he reasonably could. It was time to face the music. He trudged up the stairs, pulled the door open, and prepared himself for a barrage of shouted insults and colourful swears. 

All of which, rather anticlimactically, never came.

Techno crept into his cabin, crossed the room, and stared down at Tommy. He was lying on his side, curled in a ball, clutching his cloak tightly around his shoulders.

He was asleep.

That would explain it.

-o-

When Tommy awoke, Techno was adding the finishing touches to the crutches he’d been working on for a while. 

Techno set his project aside and stood, striding over to his brother but stopping a few feet from the couch he lay on. “How do you feel?”

Tommy, who had by this point pushed himself into a sitting position, blinked groggily up at him, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes. “I—” he cut himself off with a yawn. “I’m okay.” 

Techno inclined his head in a single nod. “That’s good,” he said.

Tommy squinted at Techno with sleep-hazed eyes for a moment longer before realisation seemed to dawn on him. His eyes widened fractionally and he winced back, staring up at him with newfound fear. “I, uh, yeah. It’s good. It’s very good.”

Techno turned away from him and made his way over to the cabinet at the side of the room. He reached up, grabbed the prosthetic foot, and made his way back to Tommy’s side.

Tommy watched his movements with a mix of fear, wariness, and confusion. 

Techno held out the prosthetic. “Here,” he said. “I want to see how you would put it on.”

Tommy reached out and gingerly took the foot. He kept his eyes locked on Techno, then glanced down at the prosthetic, then looked back up. “Are we going to... talk about what happened?”

“No,” Techno said shortly, taking a seat at his chair by the couch. “Now, if you will.”

Tommy nodded unsurely, pulling his right leg up and bending it so that it rested across his left knee. Techno crossed his arms and watched critically as he set the padded socket of the prosthetic against the stump of his calf, took a hold of the leather straps, and began trying to wrap them around his leg.

It took a couple of minutes of fruitlessly trying to correctly secure them before Tommy let out a frustrated groan and let go of them, allowing the foot to fall out the ground. “It’s impossible,” he said.

Techno let his arms drop to his side with a sigh. “Do you mind if I step a bit closer?”

Tommy hesitated for a moment before he shook his head. “I don’t mind. Do what you want,” he muttered.

Techno moved slowly as he stepped forward and stooped down to pick up the prosthesis. He set the foot against the floor, holding it so that it sat vertically underneath Tommy’s right knee. “You want to hold it like this, against the floor, and then slip your leg into the socket,” he explained. “What you were doing, holding it against your leg, doesn’t work.”

Tommy scowled. “You could’ve told me that earlier.”

“I could have, yes, but then you wouldn’t have learned. Here, lean down and hold the prosthesis in place.”

Tommy did as instructed, and once Techno was assured that he was holding it securely, he let go and took a slight step back.

“Now, put your leg into the socket. Yeah, just like that.” Techno knelt by the couch, reaching out to take hold of the straps. “Properly applying these seems rather complicated — while designing them I prioritised security over simplicity — but it should make sense once it’s actually been explained.” 

Tommy nodded along as Techno began outlining the process, detailing it in words rather than making the movements. Once the verbal demonstration was finished and he started actually showing Tommy the steps, he took each one slowly and made sure that Tommy understood everything and was able to replicate it before moving on. 

By the time the prosthesis was properly attached to his leg, Tommy had allowed a small, excited smile to spread over his lips.

Techno tried not to think about the fact that he couldn’t be sure whether it was genuine or not.

“Does that all make sense?” Techno asked.

Tommy nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“I’m trying to design a different model that shouldn’t even need straps. It’s… well, I think I’m going to need help before I can even think about actually making it. I’ve never been great at that sort of thing. For now, this one will have to do.”

“I think this one will work just fine,” Tommy said confidently.

“Now,” Techno said, standing and making his way over to the table that stood in the centre of the room. “I could either teach you the process of removing the prosthetic or,” he turned, and Tommy’s eyes widened as he saw that he was holding the crutches he’d made, “you could try walking.”

Tommy’s eyes sparkled. “I want to walk, please.”

“I’m unsurprised,” Techno said dryly. He crossed the room and held out the crutches. “Have you used crutches before?”

“Yeah I have,” Tommy said, but made no move to reach out and grab them. Instead, he stared silently at the crutches for a moment before raising his eyes to meet Techno’s. “But… do you think I can try on my own, first?”

Techno hesitated for a moment before nodding his head. “Yeah, sure,” he said, turning to lean the crutches against the wall. “But you’ve got to take it slowly. Learn to stand first, then take it one steady step at a time and we’ll work our way up from there. No instantly trying to stagger across the room, or trying to run, or trying to leave the damn house.”

Tommy huffed out a laugh. “Would I _really_ do any of that?”

Techno levelled him with a deadpan stare and decided not to grace him with an answer. 

“Okay, I do deserve that,” Tommy admitted after a moment’s pause. “I’ll take it slowly, I promise.”

Techno held out his hands for support in case Tommy needed help staying upright. “You can push yourself to your feet,” he said. “Try to keep your weight evenly distributed — don’t put all the pressure on your left leg just because it’s easier to stand on.”

Tommy grit his teeth together and did as instructed, pressing his hands against the edge of the couch and slowly rising to his feet. As soon as he stood straight enough, he threw his hands out in an attempt to keep himself balanced. He wobbled dangerously, teetering from side to side, struggling to stay still.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Techno said as Tommy’s breathing quickened. “Keep breathing, keep breathing. Take a seat if you need to, or grab onto me for support. You can try crouching down. It might help you balance.”

Tommy furrowed his brows in concentration and gave no other indication that he’d heard Techno’s reassurances. But then he let out a heavy exhale, and, keeping his arms splayed out, lowered himself slightly so that his centre of gravity sat closer to the ground. As Techno had predicted, his balance quickly grew stabler, and it only took a few more tense moments before he was able to stand with minimal movement.

The voices cheered as a bright, jubilant grin stretched across Tommy’s face. _StableInnit,_ they chanted. _StandingInnit._

Tommy glanced up at Techno. “Hey, do you see this?” he asked excitedly. “I can do it! I can stand!”

“Good job, Tommy,” Techno said sincerely, a proud smile playing across his lips. “Now you can try standing up straight. Take it carefully, of course.”

Tommy, too invigorated by his success to properly listen to Techno’s advice, instead took his words as a go-ahead to shoot instantly into a more upright position. His eyes widened as the sudden, quick movement threw him off balance and he began tipping backwards.

Tommy’s right leg instinctively stepped back to try and help catch him, but rather than help, the unfamiliar sensation of his foot being set against the ground but him being unable to actually _feel_ it meant that instead of holding him up, his leg buckled under him and only served to speed up his fall.

Techno lunged forward and caught Tommy under his arms, holding him up as he struggled to regain his footing. The voices, who had cried out in distress as Tommy fell, began to laugh. _UnstableInnit,_ they cackled. _FallenInnit._

Techno barely managed to stifle a snort at the voices’ antics. He knew it wouldn’t go down well. “I said to take it slowly,” he scolded instead. The ‘I told you so’ went unsaid but was audible in his tone.

“Oh shut up,” Tommy grumbled as he managed to get his feet back under him and then pushed against Techno, who planted his feet firmly against the ground so he could be a stable support for him to lean against.

Techno kept his arms outstretched as Tommy hesitantly let go of him and tried to once again stand on his own. It took a few moments of shaky standing before Tommy reached out and took hold of his hands, after which his stance grew a whole lot steadier.

Tommy heaved a sigh, obviously rather dejected by his lack of progress and independence.

“Do you want to try using the crutches?” Techno asked softly.

Tommy paused for a moment before eventually nodding sullenly. Techno slowly released his grip on his left hand, but kept it hovering underneath just in case Tommy needed to grab onto it again for support.

“Why is this so hard?” Tommy whispered after a moment, almost too quiet to be heard. “I used to walk just fine.”

Techno considered not answering — it didn’t feel like the words were directed at him. But Tommy needed reassurance, even if it was just in the form of a few simple words. “It’s fine, Tommy,” he said.

Tommy was silent for another moment, staring down at his feet. “I’m not a baby,” he muttered. Once again, Techno got the impression that he was speaking more to himself than anyone else.

“You’re not,” he said, his voice firm with the resolve he knew Tommy needed to feel.

Tommy scoffed doubtfully but didn’t respond.

Techno carefully leaned towards the crutches but made sure to keep a firm, supportive grip on Tommy’s right hand. He grabbed them from where they leaned against the wall and then held them out.

“I’ve been working on making them as comfortable as possible. It’s all a bit experimental, but I tried using enchantments,” Techno explained. “You should be able to use them indefinitely without feeling any pain or discomfort.”

“Oh that’s… that’s really cool, actually,” Tommy said. He stared at the crutches with wide eyes, then glanced up at Techno. “Thank you.”

Tommy took one of the crutches with his left hand and held it almost reverently. He stared at it for a moment longer before slotting it under his armpit and leaning some of his weight on it. With the support offered by the crutch, he was able to let go of Techno’s right hand and grab onto the other crutch.

Techno stepped back slowly, ready to catch Tommy in case something else went wrong or he ended up needing more support. Tommy smiled slightly at him, able to stand almost effortlessly with the help of the crutches. 

“You can try walking around, if you’d like,” Techno said after several moments ticked by and Tommy continued to stand stably. “Try to rely on crutches as little as you can, but don’t make it hard on yourself.”

Tommy, who had been waiting for the go-ahead, shot Techno a small, thankful grin. He set the tips of the crutches in front of him, stepped forward with his prosthesis, and then used the stability to step forward with his left leg.

Techno watched as he repeated the process a few times until he’d made his way to the other side of the room. Tommy carefully reached out a hand and touched the wall, as though marking his progress, before he pivoted and began crossing back towards Techno.

His eyes sparkled delightedly and expression was one of joy. “Thank you,” he said as he reached the couch. He turned and slowly lowered himself into a seated position. “Thank you so much.”

Techno returned the smile with one of his own. “You’re welcome,” he said, taking the crutches as Tommy held them out to him and leaning them gently against a wall. “You did very well.” Techno knelt by Tommy’s side. “Now, I’ll teach you how to properly remove your prosthetic.”

Tommy listened with a rather uncharacteristic attentiveness as Techno used the same teaching method as before — first, carefully explaining the process before beginning the practical removal. “Just before you start unstrapping it, you should know that I added a sort of emergency removal system,” Techno said. He gestured at a small latch on the side of the leg. “Pull down on this and the straps will detach from the foot and it will fall away. I doubt you’re ever gonna need to use it, but you never know what situation may arise.”

Tommy nodded in understanding. “Makes sense,” he said. 

“Now, do you remember the first step?”

Techno nodded approvingly as Tommy reached down and unclasped the straps from where they were buckled around his thigh. He was able to undo it all with minimal input from Techno, though the few times he did need help all he had to do was glance up questioningly and Techno would instantly explain what he needed to do.

Once Tommy had removed the prosthesis, he looked up at Techno. “What do I do with it?” he asked.

“I assume you’re burnt out of any prosthetic-related activities?”

Tommy nodded.

Techno held out his hand. Mindful of how Tommy had reacted last time he’d asked for him to hand over the prosthesis, he was careful as he asked, “Do you mind if I take it? I’ll leave it within your reach.”

Tommy hesitated momentarily before holding it out. Techno took it, and was aware of the way his brother’s eyes tracked his movements as he leaned down and set it by the couch. Once Tommy saw that the foot was well and truly well within an arm’s length of him, a subtle tension drained from his shoulders.

“If you ever want to practice putting it on and taking it off, go ahead,” Techno said. “But I’d rather you wait until I’m supervising you to try walking. It’s not because I don’t trust you enough, I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“Sounds good!” Tommy said. The opportunity to walk had put him in a good mood, good enough to agree to the terms, though Techno didn’t really expect him to keep his word. After all, he was TommyInnit. ‘Rule breaker’ was practically his middle name.

Techno pushed himself to his feet and made his way over to the kitchenette in the corner of the room. “Now, I assume you’re hungry,” he said as he began pulling out the equipment he’d need to cook. “What do you want to eat?”

Tommy immediately perked up at the mention of food, a wide grin stretching over his face.

The snowy wasteland outside was barren and desolate and bitterly, bitterly cold. But inside Techno’s lonely cabin two brothers basked in the warmth of the crackling fire and the joy of each other’s company.

As the sun set, casting brilliant hues of pink and gold over the wide expanse of snow, two members of an otherwise broken family sat by the fireplace, talking and laughing and, occasionally, just sitting in a friendly, companionable silence.

For them, at the very least, things were good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re brothers, your honour
> 
> Just clarifying here that, as of right now, the two timelines don’t really line up properly. By that I mean — last chapter, for Phil, it was the 22nd of December. For Tommy and Techno, at the end of this chapter, it’s more like,,,, the 19th? I don’t know the exact dates, but yeah, they’re not totally aligned. Soon they will meet up, though.
> 
> SOME [FANART](https://twitter.com/timx_stuff/status/1363698722534658054?s=20) BY TIMX! PLACING THIS ONE WAS A BIT DIFFICULT BECAUSE IT'S THREE PIECES OF ART FROM VARIOUS PARTS OF THE STORY, BUT I DECIDED TO PUT IT IN THIS CHAPTER BECAUSE THE LATEST OF THE ART PEICES IS BASED ON EVENTS FROM THIS CHAPTER! THE PIECES ARE DREAM HOLDING THE ORB, TOMMY WITH HIS PROSTHETIC, AND TECHNO HELPING TOMMY WALK!!


	19. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may or may not have had to split a chapter in half again
> 
> Important notes at the end regarding the next few updates

Two days had passed since Tommy had first crossed the cabin with the support of his crutches.

That was why the fact that legs were steady underneath him as he stood, unsupported, was strange.

Even though it was strange, Tommy didn’t question it. Everything was a bit strange. Countless little details of the world were off and Tommy didn’t know why. He also didn’t care to know why.

The fireplace of Techno’s cabin was empty of any flames, full of nothing but charcoal and ash, the remnants of yesterday’s fire, but heat still wafted from the corner of the room, warm enough that Tommy felt comfortable in nothing but the thin clothing he wore.

Tommy glanced down at his feet, at the prosthetic. His stance remained stable as he took a step forward. He looked up, over at the door of the cabin, and wondered where Techno was.

When Tommy took his next step forward, his boot crunched against snow. He was outside, now. The heavy, comforting weight of his winter clothing pressed down on his body, shielding him from the harsh weather.

Tommy wandered aimlessly for a time that seemed to simultaneously take a few seconds and a few hours before something finally changed. He was still standing where he had been, a few feet shy of the base of Techno’s porch, but a tiny figure came into view, just barely visible, silhouetted against the horizon.

Tommy squinted at them. Even though the distance should have rendered them unrecognisable, it only took a few seconds for him to realise who they were. 

“Techno!” he shouted happily, breaking into a run, angling towards his brother. His strides were long and fast but Tommy found that keeping his balance was something he was able to do without a second thought.

Techno didn’t move. 

Tommy’s surroundings remained unchanging as he closed the distance between them. Techno began to grow larger and more in focus, but when Tommy glanced behind himself he found that he still hadn’t moved from his position a few feet away from the stairs of the cabin’s porch.

It was rather unnerving.

Tommy kept running.

“Techno!” he called out again, once they were close enough for him to properly make out the details of his brother’s form.

This time, Techno started slightly and began to turn towards him.

Tommy slowed his pace.

There was something off about Techno. Something in the tenseness of his posture, in the stiffness of his shoulders, in the hard set of his expression. The brothers locked gazes. 

Tommy came to a complete stop, his heart hammering in his throat, blood roaring through his ears. Something akin to dread began to rise as he stared into Techno’s flickering green eyes.

_There was something in his eyes, there was something wrong with his eyes, his eyes, it was in his eyes._

Then Tommy blinked, and everything was okay. Techno’s eyes were red and sparkled with pride, his stance was relaxed and welcoming, and a warm smile was spread across his face. Sunlight glistened off his pearly white teeth.

Techno spread out his arms in an invite. “You walked, Tommy! You did it! I told you you’d learn.”

Tommy allowed himself to smile a small, triumphant grin. Techno was right, he _had_ walked, and he’d done a damn good job of it too. “Thank you,” he said, stepping towards his brother, into his open arms, wrapping his own arms around Techno’s chest and pulling him into a hug. “Thank you, Techno.”

Rather than return the embrace, Techno settled his hands onto his shoulders. Tommy glanced up curiously. Had he misinterpreted what his brother had intended when he’d held open his arms?

Techno was still smiling down at him. 

_There was something with his eyes, with his teeth, with his expression._

“Techno?” Tommy asked carefully, making to pull back from the rather one-sided embrace. He was stopped as Techno squeezed, the tips of his netherite gauntlets digging harshly into his muscle and holding him in place.

Techno hadn’t been wearing armour.

Tommy’s pulse quickened and he pushed his hands against Techno’s chestplate in an attempt to back away. The grip on his shoulders was too strong. “Techno, you’re hurting me.”

There was something wrong with Techno’s face. He was still smiling, but it lacked all of its previous warmth. His teeth were too sharp. The corners of his mouth cut into his cheeks, pulling up further than should be possible. His eyes were dark and green and danced with something that wasn’t joy. 

His grip on Tommy’s shoulders tightened further.

“You walked, Tommy,” he repeated, and this time the words were low and dangerous, lacking any of their previous cheer. “What did I tell you about walking?”

Tommy’s eyes were wide with horror as he stared up at Techno. His legs were shaking. His balance was gone. Techno’s hands were the only thing stopping him from collapsing. “What do you mean? You said I could—”

Techno interrupted him with a sharp, “I _said_ not to do it without my supervision. And what did you do, Tommy?” His face was frozen in the unsettling grin, an expression that only continued to widen.

“I– I didn’t mean to—”

“I gave you everything you needed, Tommy. I made the prosthetic for you, trusted you with control over its use. All I asked was that you waited for me before you used it. One simple thing, Tommy. And you couldn’t even do that for me.”

“Techno I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t mean to. I won’t do it again, I promise. I won’t ever do it again. I’m sorry.”

Techno’s grin continued to widen, far, far past the limits of his face. Blood began to spill from where the corners of his mouth cut into his cheeks, yet still the smile grew. His eyes darkened further, until they seemed to be nothing but empty sockets.

Blood stared dripping from his eyes, like crimson tears pouring down his cheeks.

The chilling, inhuman smile. The black, empty eyes.

Tommy’s blood was frozen in his veins.

When Techno spoke next, his voice echoed with one that wasn’t his own. “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Tommy.”

It was dark, now. A moonless light. Tommy pushed desperately against Techno, struggling to get back, to get away, to escape and to run and to hide from him, from Dream, from everyone and anyone and everything and anything.

Techno abruptly let go of Tommy’s shoulders, sending him careening back into the snow. He watched, unnervingly still, as Tommy desperately tried to scramble to his feet, to crawl away from him, to escape from the horrific, inhuman stare.

The skeletal trunks of darkened trees loomed over him, laughing, jeering, taunting.

Techno didn’t move.

Tommy let out a cry as his back slammed into a hard stone wall. They hadn’t moved and yet he found, when he frantically cast his gaze around himself, that they were in the basement of the cabin, below the storage room.

Techno took two long strides towards Tommy’s cowering form until he towered over him, a terrifying figure silhouetted in the darkness of the basement. “New rule, Tommy,” he said, his voice continuing to mutate into one that wasn’t his, into Dream’s, into _Dream’s_. Tommy’s breath hitched in his throat as Techno reached down and grabbed a hold of his prosthetic. “No more walking.”

Tommy’s eyes widened in horrified realisation a moment before Techno wrenched his arm back, foregoing any sort of detachment and tearing the foot straight from his leg. The leather straps around his calf and thigh twisted painfully as the prosthetic was ripped away, and Tommy let out another cry of fear and pain.

When Techno next spoke, there was no trace of his own voice in his words. His face, still contorted into that terrifying, bloody mask, smiled coldly down at Tommy. Dream’s voice said, “Tommy, I thought that we were friends. I made this prosthetic for you. I thought I could trust you with it. But it doesn’t seem that I learned from Logsted. You betrayed me then, and you betrayed me again now. This time, Tommy, I’m not going to let you get away.”

“Dream I’m so sorry,” Tommy said, scrambling to search for any way to escape the situation. “I thought I could be independent, I thought that, if I walked, you’d be happy. I thought you’d be proud of me. I didn’t think—”

Techno’s body reached down and grabbed him by the throat, cutting him off and pulling him harshly up the rocky wall of the basement. Tommy’s legs kicked out frantically under him, his left foot just barely able to find purchase on the ground. 

“Yes, Tommy. You didn’t _think_ ,” Dream hissed. “You didn’t follow my one simple instruction. And it seems that _you_ didn’t learn from Logsted either. You know what happens to rule breakers, Tommy.”

Tommy could do nothing but claw desperately at the iron grip around his throat as the ground below his feet began shifting and falling away, yawning open to reveal a roughly hewn hole that led into a cave that he knew oh-too well.

“Please,” Tommy forced out, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. The fingers around his neck began to loosen. “Please, Dream—”

He couldn’t even manage to choke out a scream as Techno’s body dropped him and he began plummeting down the tunnel. The landing was harsh and jarring and Tommy swore he felt something shatter, and all he could do was crumple to the ground, unable to support his weight on his one leg. 

The walls of the cave seemed to press in on him, strangling him, suffocating him, bringing rise to memories and feelings he’d been repressing. Days of pain and illness and injury. Days of fear and hopelessness and despair. Broken little sobs forced their way through his crushed throat and trembling lips.

Items began landing on the stone around him, thrown down from above. His prosthetic, his crutches, his cloak, his compass, followed by suits and suits of battered iron armour that rattled and screeched as they bashed against each other and the ground. There were dozens of them. 

One set for each day of his exile.

_“Drop your armour, Tommy. Drop it in the pit or I’ll kill you.”_

Fear and helplessness clawed at Tommy’s chest. He knew what was coming next.

“Let this be a lesson, Tommy” came Dream’s voice, echoing through the tunnels and reverberating through Tommy’s ears and skull, growing louder and louder and louder until it was broken by the sound of something else hitting the ground with a heavy thud, and a low, persistent hissing.

Tommy could only stare in silent terror as the fuse of the TNT Dream had dropped slowly burnt down to the explosives themselves. There was nothing he could do.

The flame reached the bomb.

The hissing stopped.

There was a moment of silence.

Then Tommy _screamed_ as his world was engulfed in a wave of crushing pressure and blinding light. He thrashed violently as the blast tore through his limbs, catching and tangling his arms in his blankets and bedding as he desperately tried to escape the agony of the explosion.

Tommy tumbled off the side of his bed with a jerk and a choked scream, his eyes snapping open and darting frantically, unseeingly, around the room he was in. His hand instantly raised to his mouth to stifle his cries, an instinctive reaction he had adopted during his exile.

Tommy had learned rather early on to silence himself when waking from nightmares.

Dream had despised it when he woke up screaming.

The silence of the room was a deafening contrast to the explosions that still rang in his ears. His skin burned from the phantom memory of the blast, of the pain, of the split-second feeling of being torn limb from limb by the TNT just before he’d jolted awake. Tommy barely managed to hold back a sob. 

His hand shook where it was clamped over his mouth, his hair was sticky with sweat and clung uncomfortably to his forehead, and his heartbeat was almost overwhelmingly loud as it pounded in his ears. Tommy blinked hard to clear his eyes of the tears that had welled in them.

He inhaled a deep, shuddering breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly. In his head, he repeated like a mantra the words, _I am safe, I am in Techno’s cabin, I am safe in Techno’s cabin._

He tried to ignore the part of himself that whispered that the pit he had been thrown into in his nightmare was right below him.

_I am safe, I am in Techno’s cabin, I am safe in Techno’s cabin._

Tommy’s heart rate began to slow as he sat on the hard wooden floor, tangled in his blankets, counting his breaths and pushing back the lingering traces of terror that clung to him, remnants of the nightmare.

He was okay.

A few more moments passed before he finally calmed enough for his rational mind to return and allow him to properly deal with his situation. First thing first — Tommy scowled and began tugging at the blankets, pulling himself free from them and then throwing them to the side. He pushed himself to his knees, pressed his hands against the wall for support, but froze moments before he properly stood.

_“New rule, Tommy. No more walking.”_

Tommy’s breath hitched as the memory of Techno’s face, contorted into a macabre version of Dream’s mask, flashed before his eyes, and he found himself dropping his hands to his side before he made the conscious decision to.

That had been a nightmare. Tommy knew it had been a nightmare. But Techno _had_ told him not to walk without supervision and Tommy _did_ know what happened to rule breakers. 

During his exile, Dream had taught him what happened to rule breakers. 

Tommy shuddered, bowing his head, wrapping his arms around himself and shoving back the memories that threatened to rise.

He didn’t know how long he sat like that before he was broken from his thoughts by a quiet knock at the door.

The pace of Tommy’s heartbeat began to pick back up. He jerked his head up, stared silently at the door with wide eyes as dredges of irrational panic and fear rising in his chest.

The knock came again, louder this time, more insistent. “Tommy?” came Techno’s voice. “Are you awake?”

Before Tommy even had the chance to respond, the door handle began twisting open and Techno gently pushed open the door and peered inside. He was holding a steaming mug.

_Gauntleted hands gripping his shoulders, darkened green eyes watching him, a twisted smile. Techno’s body, Dream’s voice, Dream’s words, Dream’s actions, Dream, Dream, Dream—_

“Tommy?” Techno asked carefully, staring down at him with worried crimson eyes (not green, not green, not here). He pushed the door open all the way and took a cautious step into the room. “Are you okay?”

Tommy hesitated before shaking his head slowly.

“Nightmares?” The one-word question was gentle, full of empathy and concern.

Tommy nodded.

Techno sighed softly and knelt down, staying several feet from Tommy, giving him his space. “How long ago did you wake up?” 

Tommy swallowed heavily before muttering, “A few minutes, I think. I don’t really know.”

Techno winced guiltily. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he said. “I was…” he glanced down at the mug in his hand. “Well, to be perfectly honest, I was making hot cocoa and had to get more milk.”

Tommy snorted softly. “Perfect timing for that.”

“Yeah,” Techno muttered, pushing himself to his feet. He set his mug aside. “Do you want help getting up?”

Tommy nodded again, but this time the gesture was slower and more cautious.

Techno stepped forward and held out a hand. Tommy only hesitated for a moment before he reached up and grabbed onto it, then used its support to pull himself up. He kept a tight hold on the hand as he stood unstably on his left foot.

Techno held Tommy up as he hopped over to the bed, then helped him turn around and lower himself onto the edge of the mattress. He stooped down to pick up the blankets that were strewn messily over the floor and dumped them next to Tommy.

“Keep yourself warm,” Techno instructed, turning and picking up his mug of steaming cocoa. He held it out slightly, as though showing it to Tommy. “Do you want some?”

Tommy blinked owlishly at the mug, the offer taking him completely off guard. “I think… yeah,” he said after a moment. He reached over and tugged a blanket around his shoulders. “That would be nice.”

“You can have this,” Techno said, holding it out further, an invitation to take it. “I’ll make myself some more.”

Tommy stared down at the mug, glanced up at Techno as though gauging his sincerity, before reaching out and hesitantly threading his fingers around it. Techno relinquished his hold instantly.

The ceramic was startlingly warm. Tommy hadn’t realised how cold his hands had been until they’d come into contact with the sharp, contrasting heat. The trembling in his fingers — again, something he hadn’t noticed — lessened as he gazed into the dark cocoa, at the murky, rippled reflection he could see staring back at him.

He hardly noticed as Techno left the room, presumably to make himself another mug. Tommy lifted his legs up to the mattress and pushed himself back with his left foot, until he sat with his back resting against the wall.

 _It was just a nightmare,_ he told himself. _You’re fine. You’re okay. You know how to deal with these._

Tommy heaved a sigh, shook his head slightly, and lifted the mug to his lips. He winced as the scalding liquid burned his tongue. 

“Yeah, you’ll want to be careful with that,” Techno said as he reentered the room, holding a new mug. “It’s still hot.”

“No shit,” Tommy muttered, holding it away and resolving to wait for it to cool down.

Techno walked over to a bookshelf, leafed through the titles for a moment, before reaching out and pulling one from the shelf. He settled into his seat by the bed, set his mug of cocoa on the bedside table and opened the book whose title Tommy hadn’t managed to catch.

Tommy watched him cautiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Techno to force him to open up about his dream. It was what people always did, whenever they saw him waking up from a nightmare, and he didn’t expect any different from Techno, who could, at times, be almost overbearing with his concern.

A few minutes of anxious waiting ticked by before Tommy finally spoke up. “Aren’t you going to ask me what my dream was about?”

“Nah,” Techno said, glancing up from his book. “Why? Do you want me to?”

Tommy shook his head. “No. I don’t. But everyone does it anyway. Ever since…” he looked down at his hands, picking uncomfortably at his fingernails. “I’ve had nightmares ever since the control room, and whenever someone’s there when I wake, they always ask about it, demand that I talk about it. They mean well but… it’s still shit.”

Techno’s voice lacked the pity Tommy had expected to hear, and was instead coloured with empathy and genuineness, as he said, “Tommy, I don’t want you to tell me unless _you_ want to. If you’d prefer to stay quiet then, well, just stay quiet. It’s your choice.”

Tommy stared at him for a long moment, his jaw clenched, surprise and suspicion warring in his gaze. “Why are you doing this, Techno?” he eventually asked “Why are you treating me like this?”

Techno sighed and set his book aside. “I have nightmares too,” he said gently. “I know how you’re feeling. And I know that, for me, I don’t want to be coddled when I wake. I rarely want to talk about it. I just want someone to be _there_. And I don’t know if that’s healthy — it’s probably not — but I’m not going to expect you to open up when I don’t do it either. Instead I’m going to do what I find helps the most — I’m going to be here, for you.”

Tommy shook his head, pushing back the impulse to question Techno about the fact that he, apparently, had nightmares, the urge to ask what it was that the great Technoblade had to fear. He was thoughtful enough to realise, given what Techno had _just_ said, that line of questioning would be taken poorly. And besides, that wasn’t what he had been trying to ask. “No,” he said. “No, not about the nightmare. Not about _this_. Just… in general. Over the past however many days we’ve been here. Why are you being so _kind_?”

Techno blinked. “Tommy it’s because I… because we’re… I care about you.” His eyes dropped to the ground, almost nervously. “We’re brothers, Tommy.”

Tommy bit back the scathing remark that bubbled in his throat. _You didn’t seem to think that when you executed my best friend, when you beat me to unconsciousness in a pit, when you betrayed the revolution, when you betrayed_ **_me_** , _for Dream and Wilbur and helped them blow up the nation I created._

Instead, he settled for a bitter, “If that’s what you think, then why didn’t you visit me in exile? You didn’t come for me while Dream was— you didn’t come once. You didn’t care. _No one_ cared. And then suddenly I’m your brother again, when you find me, half-dead, in a fucking hole under your house? What the fuck is up with that?”

“I wanted to visit you,” Techno muttered, his eyes still downcast. “I wanted to help.”

“Then why didn’t you? It was your choice not to come, Techno! You knew, and you didn’t fucking come!” Tommy’s breath came in short, sharp huffs as he glared at Techno.

Techno’s gaze flickered up to him, and for a moment Tommy was swamped by a wave of irrational fear, for a moment he half-expected to see the dead eyes and the bloody smile. But his eyes were still red, still soft and concerned, and Tommy had to remind himself:

_It was Techno, it was Techno, Tommy could yell at him, could get angry at him. Techno was okay with it, he let Tommy do it, let him shout, let him argue. He wouldn’t hurt him. He wasn’t Dream. He wasn’t Dream. He was Techno._

“Tommy,” Techno said slowly, his brow furrowing in consternation. “I didn’t know where you were. I asked Phil, and he couldn’t tell me. He asked around L’Manberg and said that _no one_ knew where you were.”

Tommy froze, staring at Techno with wide, confused eyes. “No,” he said. “No, that can’t be right. Dream told me — he said he told everyone where I was. And even if he hadn’t, the invites to the beach party had my coordinates. Ghostbur gave them out. Dream… Dream told me that Ghostbur gave them out.”

“Tommy… what else did Dream tell you?”

Tommy shivered, the blanket suddenly not enough to keep out the chill of the room. He brought his mug to his lips and took a drink, avoiding Techno’s gaze. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he muttered after he swallowed.

Techno stared at him for a long moment before he heaved a sigh. “That’s okay, Tommy. But Dream lied to you. No one knew where you were. I haven’t seen Wilbur in weeks and, last I heard, neither has L’Manberg. I just assumed he was with you. From what I gathered, Dream told L’Manberg that he was with you. Did you ever hear from _Wilbur_ that he handed out the invites?”

Tommy shook his head. “No,” he said bitterly. “He left me after the day we planned the party. I haven’t seen him since then. He just doesn’t care about me.”

Techno was silent for a moment before he quietly asked, “Is that what Dream told you?”

Tommy’s fingers tightened around his mug. He nodded silently.

“Figures,” Techno muttered, leaning back in his seat. His expression was brooding, but Tommy recognised the subtle tenseness of his posture for what it was.

He was angry.

_He wasn’t Dream. He was Techno._

Tommy swallowed heavily and hesitantly asked, “Do you think we could talk about something else?”

Techno’s eyes widened fractionally, a guilty spark shining in them. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Of course, Tommy. You said that before, too. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Tommy said.

The conversation swiftly changed as they began talking about various inconsequential matters. Tommy led the shift in topic, reminiscing on times gone by, on a time before wars and deaths and nightmares, of a time when they had been a family, when they had been content. When that became too nostalgic for either of them to bear, Techno began speaking of what he’d achieved with the new prosthetic he was designing as well as other projects he was working on.

Together they began discussing Tommy’s progress with relearning how to walk. During the sessions he’d had with Techno — he still wasn’t allowed to walk on his own — he had learned to stand more-or-less without support, though he was still rather unstable and struggled to take more than a few shaky steps before he ended up tumbling over. 

Considering the fact that it had only been a few days since he first tried walking he was making good headway, and that was something Techno had assured him of multiple times. Even so, Tommy couldn’t help but feel disheartened.

He just wanted to walk again, without needing to rely on Techno’s presence or his pair of crutches, but it was proving to be far, far more difficult than he ever would have imagined it being.

As the light of the barely-rising sun began peeking through the windows, bathing the cabin in a warm yellow glow, the conversation began to shift topics again, and again, before eventually settling into a comfortable silence. Tommy considered trying to fall back asleep — he really hadn’t gotten enough — but the prospect of having another nightmare deterred him from doing so.

It was only once the sun had properly risen that Techno set his book to the side, stood and stretched, then turned to Tommy. He jerked his head at the door. “You want breakfast?”

Tommy nodded with a yawn. “That sounds good.”

As Tommy reached out, grabbed his prosthetic, and deftly began strapping it to his leg — a process he’d grown quite adept at — Techno took the crutches from where they leaned against the wall. Once the prosthesis was secured, he held them out.

Tommy took them, but hesitated before he pushed himself to his feet. He shot a nervous glance up at Techno. _It was just a nightmare,_ he told himself firmly, but that didn’t stop the tiny part of him that expected to see _green eyes and a twisted smile and_ —

It was just Techno, staring down at him patiently, waiting for him to stand. Of course it was just Techno. He was being ridiculous. Tommy took a deep breath and used the support of the crutches to rise to his feet. They made their way to the other room of the cabin, to eat together and then properly start their day.

Tommy didn’t notice the date that was displayed on the calendar that hung innocently on the wall. Techno knew the date, didn’t know of its significance.

23.

It was December 23rd.

-o-

Far away from the lonely cabin, a now seventeen-year-old president was making his final preparations for a visit to his best friend. Tubbo smiled as he glanced down at the compass he held, at the needle that pointed resolutely towards where he knew Tommy’s campsite was.

Today was going to be a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE GOT SOME [FANART](https://twitter.com/sssaturnsnake/status/1350987898838020110?s=20) BY SATURN OF NIGHTMARE TECHNO, IT LOOKS ABSOLUTELY EPIC, GO CHECK IT OUT


	20. Compass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back o/

It was late morning, now. The sun was high in the sky, steadily approaching its zenith. 

Tommy had been uncharacteristically hesitant to walk today but had caved beneath Techno’s gentle insistence. Still, he was far more cautious than usual and he saw but didn’t comment on the nervous glances that were occasionally shot his way, accompanied by a spark of fear that cleared after a moment of staring. Techno didn’t know what had happened, couldn’t fathom the cause of Tommy's renewed wariness, but also didn’t want to pry. 

Instead, he remained silent from where he leaned against the wall, watching as Tommy hobbled around the edge of the room, one hand hovering a few inches shy of the wall, the other splayed out to his side. Techno kept a critical eye on Tommy’s gait and stride, trying to pick what was holding him back and what he could do to improve.

Each step Tommy took was slow and measured, and every time he began to lose balance he would press his hand against the wall, take several moments to steady himself, before continuing. But there was one clear issue, one glaring mistake he was making.

 _The step, the right foot, the pause._ The voices chanted. They had noticed it too.

Tommy stopped and looked to Techno as he cleared his throat. 

“Each time you step with your right leg, I can see you hesitate before you properly press your foot against the ground. It’s screwing up your pace,” Techno said, pushing himself from the wall and gesturing down at Tommy’s leg. “Something you’ve got to accept is that, even though you can’t feel it, your prosthetic is _there_. You’ve got to trust that it's gonna support you as you step down with your right leg because it _will_.”

Tommy glanced down at his foot and then back at Techno. He sighed. “I know, Techno. Logically, I know that I’ll be fine. But you don’t know how weird it is, to have your foot but not be able to feel it. If I step without pausing then it’s like… it’s like my leg wants to just keep pushing down, and then my knee locks, and I nearly fall over because, well, it _can’t_ keep going down. And it happens because I can’t feel it but it’s even worse if I can’t _see_ it.”

Techno inclined his head. “I don’t know how it feels,” he acknowledged. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t note the fact that it’s what’s stopping you from improving.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and let out a huff of faux annoyance. “And that doesn’t stop _me_ from noting the fact that you’re a prick.”

Techno allowed himself to settle back against the wall, levelling his brother with a deadpan stare. “Petty, unwarranted insults won’t fix your problem.”

“Ah, but they’ll be funny. So it’s a win in my book,” Tommy countered with a grin.

“The standards of your book are concerningly low if you found that to be funny.”

“Shut up.”

Techno raised an eyebrow but fell silent, instead focusing on his brother’s steps as he began walking again. Despite the banter, Tommy seemed to be taking the advice to heart, making an obvious effort to relax his stride, which helped even out his pace.

The problem Techno had just noted, of a constant hesitation before putting weight onto the prosthetic, was a recurring one — an instinct that Tommy was having a hard time shaking off. Techno wished he could help in more ways than just words, but couldn’t think of anything better than hoping that constant reminders to loosen his steps and trust in his prosthetic would let Tommy learn to naturally do so.

Tommy reached the corner of the room, the goal of today’s walk, and allowed himself to press his hands against the wall, puffing out a tired breath. “It’s so… draining,” he said, more to himself than anyone. “Just walking across the room, and I feel like I’ve run a marathon.”

“It’s only to be expected,” Techno said, stepping up to Tommy with the crutches in hand. “You’re learning to walk, on one leg, after weeks of not walking at all.”

Tommy began to turn towards him, began to speak, but the words failed in his throat as something caught his eye. A calendar hung innocently on the wall, open to December, but the date it read… 

Tommy ignored Techno’s questioning grunt as he stepped carefully over to the calendar, staring silently at the number displayed in bold, black ink.

23.

His eyes were wide.

The 23rd of December.

“Techno,” Tommy said, his voice little more than a whisper. He turned to Techno, his eyes shining with guilt, his words choked with grief. “Techno, it’s Tubbo’s birthday today.”

Techno lowered the crutches. “Oh,” was all he said. He didn’t know what else _to_ say. 

Tommy bowed his head, clenching his eyes shut. “It’s his birthday,” he repeated. Techno watched silently, not knowing what to do, as he leaned heavily against the wall, head ducked low, limbs trembling. 

Tommy's hand raised to clutch at his chest, and he started slightly as his fingers closed around nothing but air. He opened his eyes to stare down in horror at his empty hand. It was as though he had expected something else.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Techno said as Tommy’s breathing quickened. While he knew very little about Tubbo and had rather mixed opinions on him and the fact that he was the president of L’Manberg — a person who had made a conscious effort to rebuild the nation even after Techno’s threats — now wasn’t the time to let those opinions shine through. Because Tubbo was also Tommy’s best friend (though there had to be _something_ going on between them, what with the whole exile), and Tommy needed help.

So Techno set the crutches to the side and placed a gentle hand on Tommy’s shoulder, trying to break him from whatever trance he was falling into. Tommy flinched back at the unexpected touch, his head jerking up to stare at Techno with terrifed eyes for a moment before they cleared of their fear and instead filled with the swirling grief that had been present before.

“Techno,” he choked out, folding into the arm that rested on his shoulder. Techno embraced him hesitantly. “Techno, it’s Tubbo’s birthday. It’s Tubbo’s birthday and I didn’t even _realise_. Techno, I– I don’t have the compass. I lost it. I lost the Tubbo compass. It's not here, it's not around my neck. Techno I don't know where I put it, or where it last was, or where I last saw it. Techno I forgot about it. I forgot about Tubbo, his birthday, the compass. Techno I— I can't—”

Techno squinted confusedly for a moment before his eyes widened in a sudden realisation. Phil had _Techno’s Compass_ , a lodestone compass whose needle pointed steadfastly towards his cabin. He could only assume that the ‘Tubbo Compass’ was something similar. And, given how much _Techno’s Compass_ meant — a sentimental value that ran far, far deeper than its physical worth — Techno could guess that the ‘Tubbo Compass’ had a similar place in Tommy’s heart. He could understand how warranted this reaction was.

Techno’s throat tightened at the thought of Phil, but now wasn’t the time to deal with his woes.

There had been nothing in Tommy’s hands or pockets when Techno had pulled him out of the pit below his basement, which meant the compass was either lost or, rather more unpleasantly, still down there.

Techno grimaced as memories of his short traversal into the cave surfaced, but quickly wiped the expression from his face as Tommy raised his head. 

“Techno, I forgot about the compass,” he repeated, his voice a despairing whisper.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay. It’s okay,” Techno said gently, feeling a little awkward, unsure of what to do or say. He pulled slightly away from the embrace. “Here, come sit down.” 

Tommy nodded silently, his eyes flickering down to stare at his feet, and leaned heavily on Techno as he allowed him to lead him over to the couch and sit him down. 

The compass, at the very least, was a problem Techno knew how to solve. His current plan was that he would either go into the pit and find the compass, or he would go into the cave and not find it. The first option was obviously preferable, but either way, it was a defined course of action. He did not, however, know what to do about the fact that it was, apparently, Tubbo’s birthday. His ability to console people was _not_ something Techno was known for. That would be an issue he faced only when he had to.

For now, he would try to get Tommy’s mind off the absence of the compass and onto the more productive topic of its retrieval.

Tommy’s gaze was firmly fixed on his fidgeting hands, steadily avoiding looking up and facing anything else in the room. Techno knelt before him, settling his hands on his knees, and Tommy’s eyes briefly flickered up to meet with his crimson ones before dropping just as quickly back to his hands.

“Tommy, it’s okay. It’ll be okay. We can find the compass. I’ll help you find the compass. First, I need you to try and remember when you last had it.”

Tommy’s brows furrowed slightly as he tried to recall the past weeks. The focus took his mind off his panic and guilt, which subsequently helped him calm down slightly. “I had the compass as I walked through the snow,” he said haltingly, after a few moments. His tone expressed the hesitance and fear with which he was approaching the topic, these memories, with. “I think I had it when I was… down there. I think— no, wait, I remember, I definitely had it.” 

Tommy glanced up at him, and Techno answered his question before he even spoke. “You didn’t have the compass when I carried you out.”

Tommy winced slightly. “Ah,” he said. “So… it’s still there?”

“It sounds like it,” Techno said, fighting the repulsion the thought of the cave brought rise to. If his short trip into it made him feel this way, he couldn’t imagine how Tommy must be feeling. He had to approach this delicately. “Finding it should be easy enough. I can take care of it.”

“You’re going to go down?”

Techno nodded. “Yeah.” 

Tommy paled, visibly stiffening.

“It’s okay, Tommy. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll take care of this.” Techno pushed himself to his feet. “Please, just stay here.”

Tommy nodded and pulled his legs up to the couch, hugging his knees to his chest. He watched silently as Techno turned and walked over to the ladder nestled into the corner of the room.

Techno climbed down quickly and easily jumped the last few rungs. He crossed over to a chest, pulled out a few lanterns, then heaved aside the stone that covered the tunnel from his storage room to his basement and climbed down the second ladder. 

Techno allowed himself a small smile as Bob let out a quiet moo of greeting, stepping over and patting the animal gently on his head. “Hey,” he said. Though Techno was rather sure Bob didn’t possess quite the same uncanny level of intelligence as Carl, he still liked to talk to him as though he did. “This one’s not gonna smell very pleasant, I’m afraid. You’ll want to hold your breath.”

Bob mooed again, butting his head gently into Techno’s chest.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Techno said, moving his hands to scratch behind Bob’s ears and horns. “Look, we can go out later today. You can see the bees. Sound good?”

Bob huffed out a breath, let out a third, decisive moo, then took a few steps away from Techno, who turned and cast his apprehensive gaze over to where he knew Tommy’s pit was hidden. He had covered the entrance of both the ladder shaft and his hastily carved staircase with slabs of stone, to stop the stench from spreading throughout his house, but had otherwise resolved to ignore its presence entirely.

Each time he thought of doing something about it, he had told himself, _I’ll deal with it later._ Weeks had passed, and it was finally later.

The first thing Techno did was shrug his cape off his shoulders and set it to the side. It was, at the very least, one thing he could prevent from getting dirtied by what he was about to do.

He then knelt down, took and held a deep breath, and pulled aside the stone slab covering the ladder, deciding that he would take advantage of the ease-of-access offered by the direct drop down to help make this trip as quick as possible.

Techno grimaced as he peered into the darkened cave that was revealed, practically able to _feel_ the miasma that emanated from it, that seemed to wash over him like a dense, physical cloud. Even without inhaling, it was revolting. He dreaded the moment he would have to take a breath.

He should have dealt with this earlier.

Moving quickly, Techno withdrew one of his lanterns and dropped it into the hole, trusting that its craftsmanship would let it survive the fall. It landed with a solid, clanging splash that echoed up through the tunnel, and lit the cave in a dull yellow glow.

Techno didn’t want to go down.

He _really_ didn’t want to go down.

But this compass was the one solace he could offer Tommy.

So he clenched his jaw and, foregoing use of the ladder — he was prioritising speed over anything else — leapt down the shaft and into the literal shithole below. The impact shot through his legs and they had to buckle slightly to compensate for the force, but he was able to steady himself without much difficulty.

The shiver that ran through Techno’s body was an instinctive reaction to the chill that had, if anything, only intensified since his last visit. He cast a quick glance around the cave and had to resist the urge to gag. The second shiver that ran up his spine was one of disgust and not cold.

 _Ew,_ said the voices. Techno shared their sentiment.

The muck coating the rough ground and walls seemed to have grown thicker and denser, and now made a repulsive squelching sound as Techno shifted on his feet. He could hear the low buzzing of some sort of insect — probably flies or midges — but made no effort to search for the source. The chest that Tommy had shoved into the corner had colonies of mould spreading along its surface and a bundle of wool, lying on the ground, soaked in so much filth that it was a dark grey-brown colour, seemed to be rotting away. Techno could have sworn that he saw little maggots worming away inside the wool, but resolved not to look any closer.

Techno found himself unable to shake off the nausea that settled deep in his stomach. It wasn’t purely because of his surroundings — as bad as they were, he had seen worse — but instead the fact that this tiny, filthy cave was where Tommy had spent _days_.

Even though it was worse than before — a given, seeing as everything down here had been festering for weeks — Tommy had still been utterly alone in this dark and the cold, plagued by pneumonia and infection and quite literally rotting away as his gangrene had spread. 

Techno had never stopped and taken the time to truly appreciate how horrific Tommy’s situation had been. The thought of it now was enough to send a third shudder running down his spine. 

He didn’t know how Tommy had survived long enough for Techno to even find him.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Techno raised a hand and held it over his mouth and nose. He was regretting the lack of foresight that had led to him not having a mask or gloves. With his other hand, he pulled out a second lantern to help brighten the cave further. While it had the rather negative effect of highlighting the repulsiveness of his surroundings, it would also reflect off any shiny surfaces. 

Techno narrowed his eyes as he searched for a telltale glimmer of light off metal. He hoped he would be able to find the compass without actually having to dig through anything, but a quick scan of the cave revealed no such luck.

Techno let out the breath he had been holding, pinched his fingers over his nose, and inhaled through his mouth. He could practically taste how vile the air was. Once he found the compass and Tommy was feeling better, he was going to fill this godforsaken pit with cement.

Techno walked over to the chest and made as little contact as possible with it as he flipped the latch over and pulled it open. Inside were piles of wood, stone and coal that had remained mostly untouched by the rot and mould of the cave. Due to that, he was more willing to reach into the chest and made quick work of combing through the resources. The compass wasn’t there.

Techno stepped back, snapped the lid shut, and turned to the compass’ other obvious hiding place. The bundle of festering wool. He reached out a boot and gingerly toed through it, ignoring the tiny white maggots he could see squirming around inside.

 _Gross,_ said the voices. Their chant as Techno searched the cave had been a mixture of _‘ew,’ ‘gross,’_ and _‘yuck,’_ with the occasional comment about the compass or comforting Tommy.

As always, they were extraordinarily useful. Not that Techno disagreed with them.

Techno narrowed his eyes as he saw the light glimmer off something buried in the wool. He took another breath through his mouth, then crouched down, taking care not to let anything but his boots touch the ground. Reaching out and resisting the visceral urge to cringe back as his skin contacted the wool, he shoved it aside to reveal the iron case of a compass.

The voices cheered.

Techno pulled the compass out and stood, using his thumb to push a grub off its surface. It was grimy, caked with dirt and other less pleasant things, but it still shone with the light of the lantern and was undeniably what he had been looking for. The joy Techno felt was more over the fact that he would now be able to get out of this hellhole than the fact that he had actually found the compass.

He put away the lantern he was holding, picked up the one on the ground, and then began climbing back up the ladder. Even though the air of the basement had been sullied slightly by that of the cave, the first breath Techno took after cresting the lip of the tunnel seemed to _taste_ good.

He used his boot to shove the stone slab back in place, picked up his cape, then made his way over to the ladder that led to the storage room. On the way, he gave Bob one last pat on the head, before climbing up and walking over to his chests. He packed the lanterns away, pulled out a bucket of water and took a few moments to clean the compass from its shell of grime.

As he cleaned it, Techno began to realise that it was unlike any lodestone compass he had ever seen.

Techno had, while making _Techno’s Compass_ , learnt a lot about lodestone compasses and other such tracking devices. His original plan for creating a gift for Phil had been something that actively tracked his location. He had thought perhaps using his DNA would be the key to letting it happen, and had turned to his books to find out more.

It had only been after Techno found that all DNA could track was the status of the person it came from — that is, with the right magic, it could reveal information about their lives and respawns — that he had turned to the more mundane lodestone.

The magic of lodestone compasses was based almost entirely in the lodestone itself and required little to no modification of the compass. Techno didn’t quite understand the specifics of it, but he knew that it was the compass’ redstone reacting with the lodestone’s netherite, which was in itself affected by the intricate runes and enchantments that were imbued into the stone bricks it was set into. It was complex, convoluted magic, but in it was something that drew the needle away from the magnetic north and towards the lodestone.

Making a compass that tracked anything but a lodestone was damn near impossible, as it was only that fragile connection between the redstone and netherite combined with the magic embedded into the stone, all very delicate and finicky things, that let it work.

All of this was why the fact that this compass — _Your Tubbo_ , as proclaimed by the engraving on its case — was so strange. The topside of it was clear but for the words, its name, but the underside was like nothing Techno had seen.

Embedded in its centre was a small chip of something that, if Techno didn’t know any better, he would have sworn to be netherite. While he didn’t know what else the dark metal could be, the prospect of it being _netherite_ of all things was absurd. Engraved around that chip were various symbols, minuscule and obviously carved with the utmost care, many of which Techno recognised only due to the fact that he had, in the process of creating _Techno’s Compass_ , had to make a lodestone himself.

They were runes of magnetism and attraction. The same things Techno had carved into the stone around his lodestone’s netherite core, but with slight modifications — almost as though they had been adapted to better suit a material other than stone.

Almost as though they had been adapted to better suit a material like iron.

If Techno were to hazard a guess, he would say that the compass was somehow a lodestone in and of itself — a concept he had never even dreamt of. It shouldn’t be possible, but with each moment Techno spent further inspecting the runes he became more sure of its plausibility.

The likelihood of this compass being part of a group was high, and all these realisations implied the presence of far more complex magic than Techno had expected or even knew of. He was intrigued, and the scholar within him wanted nothing more than to pick the compass apart, to learn how it worked and how to recreate it.

But he knew he couldn’t do that. This was Tommy’s, and the entire reason he had retrieved it was to help him.

He would return the compass, wouldn’t ask any questions about it or its creation. At least, not until after Tommy had calmed. Give Techno a few days and he wasn’t sure he would be able to stop himself from grilling Tommy about the compass’ inner workings.

But that would be then. For now, Techno dunked the compass in the bucket of water one last time, carefully scrubbed it free from the lingering traces of dirt that clung to its case, and then set off towards the ladder that led back to the surface.

He had a compass to give to its rightful owner.

-o-

Tommy waited, perched on the couch, his eyes clenched shut, his head buried in his knees. His grief hadn’t let up and his mind was still crowded by the thoughts of Tubbo and memories of all the times they had spent together.

He briefly wondered whether Tubbo was thinking of him, but quickly abandoned that train of thought. The act of exiling him and the subsequent lack of visits had made it painfully clear what Tubbo thought of him. Pondering over it would only make Tommy feel worse.

So instead, he wondered what Tubbo was doing. He hoped he was having fun, celebrating with Ranboo, Quackity, Fundy, and all the other citizens of L’Manberg who would attend Tubbo’s party where they hadn’t been bothered to even drop into Tommy’s. Maybe Wilbur was there, too. He probably cared enough not to mess up _those_ invites.

The bitterness that had begun to rise was swept away by the recollection of the revelations that had been made earlier in the morning, of Wilbur’s apparent disappearance and everyone else’s lack of knowledge. The conception that the reason behind the lack of visits had been due to hatred and lack of care was one that had been drilled into Tommy’s head countless times by Dream. The possibility of that _not_ being the case was one he was having a hard time wrapping his head around.

Had they truly not known where Logsted was? Was that, and not a hatred of Tommy, the reason he had received no visitors? And if that were the case, then why had Dream put the time and effort into orchestrating it all?

Tommy felt a strange sense of foreboding as he thought of it — a tiny, niggling feeling that told him he was missing something, that he had forgotten something. But as was the nature of memories, it is impossible to know whether you _don't_ know something, and his exile was an experience that had merged into one long blur of pain, misery and loneliness that Tommy had no desire to dig into. Surely, if it had been something truly important, he would remember it.

And... what about Tubbo? Had _he_ not known where Tommy was? 

Tommy wanted to believe that, wanted so desperately for the last fact to be true, but he knew it wasn’t. Even though the public may not have been privy to his location, Tubbo was the president. Tubbo was the one who had ordered the exile. Tubbo must have known where he was.

The sound of heavy footfalls against the rungs of a ladder was all that saved Tommy from the roiling tide of emotions and memories that had threatened to wash back in. He looked over to where he knew Techno would emerge, waiting with nervous anticipation to see what he had or hadn’t found.

When Tommy saw the small smile on Techno’s lips, he let out an involuntary breath of relief. When Techno reached into his pocket and withdrew a compass, he felt a final, unknown tension drain from his shoulders.

Techno had found it.

Tommy still didn’t understand how he had managed to forget about the compass. It had been a near-constant source of comfort during his exile, something that had almost completely survived Dream’s wrath as well as Tommy’s own emotions.

Dream had taken it once. Tommy had been so sure he would never see it again, so to have it returned afterwards, unharmed but for a small chip of metal and a new set of engravings on the underside of its case, had been a massive surprise and had swamped him with an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Dream.

Tommy had nearly destroyed it once. In the aftermath of the beach party, he had gone to the nether, held it over lava, been prepared to drop it. Dream had talked him out of it, convinced him to keep the compass close and safe and made him swear to never let it go. At the time, Tommy hadn’t questioned Dream’s strange insistence, but looking back… the act had been an odd, uncharacteristic one.

The scraping of a chair broke Tommy from his thoughts before he could delve too far into his memories and the trauma associated with them. Techno now sat before him, proffering the compass.

“It was down there,” Techno said. “It seems you remembered correctly.”

Tommy took the compass reverently, held it in hands that trembled ever-so-slightly. He stared down at it, at the familiar words etched on its surface, and felt the backs of his eyes burn. He brought the compass close to his chest, looked up at Techno, considered thanking him, then decided that he had been sappy enough over the past few days.

So he took a breath, tried not to think about the way it shook, and said, “You smell like shit.”

Techno stared at Tommy for a moment, taken aback by the unexpected impudence, before letting out a snort. “Well, yeah. I would.”

Tommy hummed in agreement, ignoring the tightness in his throat and the way his knuckles were white where they were clasped around the compass. “Yeah. Did you know it’s gross? You’re gross, Techno.”

Techno inclined his head gracefully. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Maybe it wasn’t intended as one, but I interpreted it as, ‘Technoblade, you did something undesirable for me that, as a result, made you smell rather unpleasant. Thank you for going through that for my benefit, I will be forever indebted to you due to your sacrifice.’”

“Well, that’s just fucking stupid.”

Techno raised an eyebrow. “Okay, Tommy. I’m glad you think so.”

Tommy ducked his head, blinking hard to clear his eyes. “I do think so.” The bravado and humour that coated his words and shielded them from his true emotions — a defence mechanism that had been suspiciously absent over the past days — was wearing thin.

Techno stared at Tommy for another long moment before huffing out a breath and pushing himself to his feet. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” he said. “After all, my staying here is only allowing the smell to spread.” The lightheartedness of his words was contrasted by the concern that lined his tone.

“Yeah, you do that,” Tommy muttered. His eyes shone with a traitorous sheen of tears as he raised them to meet Techno’s worried gaze. There was a slight furrow in Techno’s brow and the corners of his mouth were tight with apparent displeasure. He seemed to be debating whether or not to speak.

After a moment of silence that hung heavily in the air, Techno cleared his throat, nodded once — a silent acknowledgement of the underlying message of Tommy’s brash words — and turned towards the door. “Shout out if you need anything.”

As Techno reached out to the handle, Tommy felt only a moment of hesitation before he said, quietly and genuinely, “Thank you, Techno.”

Techno looked back, met his eyes, and inclined his head in another wordless acknowledgement. He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Tommy alone in the silence he’d been subtly asking for.

After a moment, Tommy flicked the latch that held the compass closed and watched as the case popped open, revealing its true face and the needle that pointed unwaveringly towards his home — if L'Manberg could even be called that anymore. It was then, as he stared down at the treasure held tightly in his hands, that Tommy finally allowed himself to cave, allowed the dam holding back his emotions to fall. He crumpled around the compass, clenched his eyes shut, took a deep, shuddering inhale. Tears broke surface tension and spread like wildfire until his breaths were hiccuped by sobs.

Tommy hated crying. He hated it and the fact that he had done it so much over the past weeks. It was shameful and unbecoming, and the action itself always brought up both fresh and old trauma he was in the process of pushing down and burying. 

The worst part of it all was that he kept doing it, kept embarrassing himself like that, in front of _Technoblade_ of all people.

He wasn’t a child, he wasn’t weak, and yet here he was, relying on Techno like some sort of helpless puppy. He wanted to become more independent, wanted to prove to Techno, to _himself_ , that he didn’t need the help he continued to receive, and yet he kept breaking apart and Techno kept pulling the pieces back together. Over a nightmare, a birthday, a compass.

It was humiliating.

Tommy’s fingers ghosted over the words engraved into the iron case. _Your Tubbo_.

He missed Tubbo. 

Tubbo was someone Tommy was never afraid to be genuine around. Tubbo was someone he could cry into the shoulder of without fear of judgement or shame. Tubbo was someone he would trust with his life, his soul, his every secret. 

Tubbo was Tommy’s brother in all the ways his real family fell short.

Tubbo was…

Tubbo was someone who would exile him.

Tubbo was someone who would tear away Tommy’s life and livelihood, who would cast him away and leave him in the clutches of Dream, of _Dream_. Tubbo was someone who wouldn’t visit him, wouldn’t _think_ of him, who would leave him to rot away, alone and afraid, while he lorded over his perfect nation.

 _‘Government corrupts,’_ was what Techno had said.

Tubbo was someone who had been corrupted.

Tommy’s fingers dug into the compass’ case. He stared down at it, his eyes hardening, his lip curling into a sneer. It was just a fucking compass. All it did was point to a place he would never be able to return to. The only purpose it served was as a taunting echo of everything that had been torn from him. 

His discs were worth more than it.

Tommy lifted his gaze to the fire. Bitterness bubbled in his throat, choking his rational mind and bringing him to a harsh, rash decision. He raised his arm, pulled his hand back, aimed for the fireplace, and—

And dropped his hand back to the side, clenching his eyes shut and burying his head into his knees.

He couldn’t burn the compass. 

He was too weak to do something like that.

Tommy sat there, curled in a protective ball, fingers wound around the compass that he hated, that he loved, that he relied on. His only accompaniment was the soothing crackle of the flames that were oh-so discordant with the raging of his turbulent emotions.

Tears leaked from behind closed eyelids, dripping down his cheeks and soaking into the thick fabric of his pants. The sound of the fire was soon drowned out by the heaving, hiccuping sobs that clawed up Tommy’s throat and forced themselves from his lips.

Emotions and memories rose unbidden, their joy and carefreeness sullied by the lens of future knowledge Tommy was looking at them through. 

They only made him cry harder.

-o-

Far away, a president stared in horror up at the tower of blocks that loomed over the crater of a campsite. A basket, full of food, resources and gifts, slipped from numb fingers. The cake he’d baked, a celebratory token of his birthday, splattered against the ground.

“Surely not,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

The now seventeen-year-old dropped to his knees, one hand clamped tightly over his mouth to hold back the sobs that clawed at his throat, the other reaching up to clutch the compass hanging around his neck in a white-knuckled grip.

Tubbo lowered his head to the grass. Silent tears poured down his cheeks.

_Surely not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't know, that last part is a _direct_ retelling of this [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugJRGi_iLXY&ab_channel=TubboLIVE) scene.
> 
> anyway i'm back at in-person school now so updates will probably continue to be really fuckin slow


	21. Interlude - Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't meant to exist. I got struck by the idea two days ago, and it came with such a sudden, unexpected burst of motivation that let me just speedrun it.  
> In other news, school is absolutely garbage for motivation! I hate it!! But the actual chapter of the main plot is already mostly written so like... it shouldn't take another three weeks? Though no promises, because school and mental health and irl stuff, y'know?
> 
> Anyway remember kids, it was the spider and not the baby zombie that killed Phil in his hardcore world.
> 
> Warnings are at the bottom of the the end notes.

Death.

It is an abstract concept, one that is difficult to grasp and even harder to understand. 

Where do we go, once our bodies give in? What happens to _us_ , the sparks of consciousness that are physically nothing more than chemicals and electric signals but are, in reality, so much more; unexplainable feats of nature that are simply snuffed out once the body we are contained in ceases to function?

Would it be too cynical to answer those questions with a ‘nowhere’ and a ‘nothing?’

In worlds where everyone lives with one life, death is feared and reviled, something to avoid, to take precautions against, to ward off as superstitious folk might do to spirits and curses.

In worlds where everyone lives with three lives, where, even after your final life is taken, there is potential to come back, death is practically unknown. It seems far less real, far less substantial. It is often regarded as a joke, a horror story, is rarely acknowledged as the looming, inevitable reality it truly is.

In worlds like this, where the weight death holds on the minds of its inhabitants is far less than it really should be, the occurrence of it, when it comes with the permanence of a person’s third life being taken, well... 

It hurts, but it is never just the pain that comes from loss. 

It is a pain that comes from shock and horror and the sharp reminder that, even to those that live with the contentment of three lives, there is an end — that there will always _be_ an end.

It is a pain that comes from fear of a concept that is unfamiliar and unacknowledged and that will fade back to a looming obscurity once the grieving process ends.

It is a pain that comes from the unknown.

-

Death.

It was something that had always terrified Philza.

He was a hybrid living with one life in a world of those that lived with three. His circumstance was one he kept close to his chest, one that he divulged to no one, no one but those closest to him. The mark on his neck — a single heart rather than the three tally-like marks of others — was one he explained away as a protective measure, an act of paranoia, a tattoo he had gotten over his tally marks to hide his true number of lives from prying eyes. In reality, it was a sign of the condition of his existence, the existence he lived in but shared with none — an existence where he had never died and yet a single fatal mistake would spell his end.

He had had many close calls, in his younger years. Back then he had been careless and daring, confident to the point of arrogance. He would go into the nether with nothing but iron armour, would challenge himself by fighting the strongest mobs he could find, would go caving and exploring with minimal gear and unsuitably enchanted armour. 

The closest he had ever come to death had been while travelling an embarrassingly mundane cave. There was a golden rule of mining, one that even Phil, stupidly bold as he had been back then, always followed. It was why he preferred mining in the comfort of well-lit strip mines than risking ventures into caves and ravines. Never leave your back unprotected. 

It had been an encounter with a zombie, of all the stupid things — a baby zombie clad in enchanted golden armour — though the undead monster hadn’t really been the cause of his near-death.

His strip mining had led him to the cave, and the only thing that had stopped him from immediately blocking up the entrance had been the glimmer of exposed diamonds he spotted by a lava pit. The zombie had been meandering around the edge of the pool and Phil had leapt at it unthinkingly, striking the corpse with a blow that unbalanced it enough for him to shove it into the bubbling lava. He had considered himself done, considered the zombie just one more dead monster among the sea of others he had slain. 

The world had decided otherwise, though, and from the unlit depths of the cave had come a massive spider, leaping down from a darkened ledge and onto his exposed back, latching its clawed legs onto his unarmoured wings and burying its pincers into an unprotected portion of his neck — right where the heart-shaped mark of his single life lay. 

His armour, enchanted as it had been, had had its flaws. After this encounter, he had taken to wearing a chainmail undercoat to protect his neck and joints in the areas armour had to remain uncovered in order to allow for movement.

In the moment Phil had panicked, pupils blown wide, heart pounding in his throat. He had staggering backwards, shaking his shoulders, flaring his wings out, trying desperately to dislodge the beast from his back. The spider had remained unaffected, shifting its weight slightly to account for the movement but otherwise remaining firmly in place. The pain from the puncture wounds had been swiftly replaced by an icy numbness and Phil had felt himself slowing, his actions becoming uncoordinated and sluggish as he tried to escape, his racing heart only serving to quicken the rate at which the venom spread through his body.

It had been sheer, dumb luck that had saved him. He had given into the venom and collapsed, too weak to put up any more of a fight. When he landed it wasn’t against the floor but instead a rocky wall he had been unknowingly stumbling towards.

The impact had been enough to dislodge the spider, sending it careening from its position and toppling into the lava Phil had fallen dangerously close to. He had retained enough of his wits to dig a shaking hand into his pocket and pull out a golden apple, the healing properties of which had been the only thing that had saved him from the paralysis that would have otherwise set in, that would have left him easy prey for whichever monster wandered into the cave next.

Had anyone else shared his experience they would have laughed it off as just another close call and forgotten about it, remaining content in the fact that even if they had died, it would’ve been just one of their three lives.

It had stuck to Phil, though. Stuck in the form of a terrifying memory and the twin scars the pincers had left, right over the heart on his neck. Right over his life.

He had never looked at spiders in quite the same way.

Now, he rarely acted recklessly. When venturing into a dangerous situation, he did so with a plan and supplies and skill that far surpassed what he knew he would be facing. A caving trip in an area he knew was safe needed, at the very least, diamond armour and weapons. Going to the nether required nothing less than fully enchanted netherite. 

He also rarely fought with honour. When Phil fought, he did so with every dirty trick he knew, every card he held up his sleeve, every subtle tactic and deceitful maneuver he knew how to pull off. Maybe it was shameful — there would definitely be people who would sneer and curl their lips at it — but he couldn’t do anything else, couldn’t _afford_ to do anything else. For him, the stakes of every fight was his life, his single life, and life was something Phil valued over nearly everything in the world. 

And yes, maybe at times he went overboard. 

But it was this mindset that had kept him alive.

And it was this mindset that he had, almost unconsciously, imparted to sons.

Even though they had three lives, even though Phil _knew_ they had three lives and was reminded of the fact every time he saw the three tally marks on their necks, he couldn’t help but think of it as though they had just the one. 

He instructed them on handling weapons far earlier than many would but still waited years before taking them venturing into caves or the nether. He drilled the theory of everything into their minds before letting them do anything dangerous in practice. When he taught them to fight he did so with his own style, with one that had a single goal: survival.

He had taught them that losing any of their lives was something to be avoided above all else, stressed how important it was to stay safe and careful and away from anything and everything they weren’t geared or prepared to handle.

Or, he had tried to.

It had only ever really stuck to Techno.

-o-O-o-

Phil had had no time to react.

One moment Wilbur had been standing before him, talking about his nation and the past and a traitor whose name Phil had never heard, the next he had leapt back, whipped around, and slammed his hand down on the button with a click that spelled out his nation’s destruction.

Phil had been unable to do anything but let out a startled cry before the world exploded in a blast of light and heat and sound. He may have shouted, he may have screamed. It went unheard over the TNT’s earth-shattering detonation. 

The wall of the cave, the one that faced L’Manberg, was just enough to protect Phil and Wilbur from the explosion but was unable to remain standing, and there were a few split-seconds where huge, splintering cracks wound their way up the rock face before it cracked under the pressure, huge stones and boulders plummeting from what seemed to be the sky and only barely missing the cave’s ledge.

Without the shield the wall had offered, there was nothing stopping the explosion’s shockwave as it tore through the cavern with sweltering heat and breathtaking strenght, effortlessly lifting Phil up and flinging him across the room. His impact with the rocky wall was harsh, one that drove the air from his lungs, sent pain lancing through his body, and had force enough that his neck was snapped backwards and his head slammed against the stone, bringing forward a dizzying burst of stars from behind his eyes.

Phil crumpled against the wall, his ears ringing, his senses filled with dust and ash and smoke. His exposed face and arms burned with a ferocious, stabbing pain and even as he lay there he could still feel the heat from the explosion wafting through the cavern. Everything was blurry, muddled, swimming in and out of focus, leaving him to squint dazedly through the haze that now clouded his surroundings. 

Past the new, gaping hole sported by the cavern was a battlefield, slowly being swallowed by the billows of smoke that rose from L’Manberg’s smouldering wreckage. There was a landscape, burnt and broken and ravaged by explosions and war and the very presence of humans on its soil. There were fighters, weapons loose in their fingers, staring, slack-jawed and horrified, at the crater of what had once been their nation. There were the unmistakable bases of withers, a figure standing before them, holding a skull in either hand and sporting terrifyingly familiar pink hair.

Phil only had a moment to dazedly take it all in before it was completely hidden by dust and smoke and the blurriness of his own vision.

 _Wilbur is here, too,_ something inside him whispered, and it was enough to jolt him from the stupor he had fallen into. Wilbur, his son, the one who had caused this, his _son_ , who was probably injured, lying somewhere in this cave, the contents of which Phil could barely make out anymore.

Phil pressed shaking hands against the wall and used it to haul himself to his feet, ignoring the pain that throbbed behind his eyes and lanced through his leg as he pushed himself from the support and staggered forward. His stomach roiled with nausea and there were coughs clawing their way up his throat as he choked on the polluted air that pressed down on him like a physical weight. His head spun and blood roared through his ears. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

Outside, the ground quaked with the aftershock of the explosion. Blinded as he was, Phil could still hear screaming, shouts of denial and protest and fear, and he shuddered to think of the casualties that had been caused. Then, cutting through it all came laughter — peals of hysterical, unhinged laughter.

Phil could make out nothing but he knew exactly who the sound was coming from, could tell _where_ it was coming from, and began stumbling blindly towards its source.

It was only when they stood a few feet from each other that Wilbur came into view, leaning heavily against the cave wall, just before where it fell away, staring out over the destruction he had wrought. He sounded like he was laughing, he _was_ laughing, but the shaking of his shoulders looked more akin to sobs. 

Wilbur turned, then, and Phil was struck by just how awful he looked. His face was caked by a mask of ash and dirt that was interrupted only by streaks of blood and tears. His hair was filthy and matted and singed from the explosion’s heat, and forming along any of his exposed skin was the raw, blistering beginning of burns. 

Wilbur didn’t seem to care.

Phil supposed he didn’t look much better himself.

“My L’Manberg, Phil,” Wilbur said. The words seemed to want to be a shout but instead ended up as more of a choked whisper. “My unfinished symphony, forever unfinished.”

Wilbur swayed dangerously as he pushed himself from the wall, barely able to keep himself on his feet. He reached to his belt and grasped hold of what Phil belatedly realised was a sword. The cave was filled with the metallic rasp of metal against leather a moment before it was illuminated by the dull glow of the blade’s enchantments.

Phil watched with bated breath, his body tense and coiled, ready to move at a moment’s notice despite the pain in his leg and pounding ache in his head, as Wilbur stared at the shimmering diamond sword he had drawn. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Wilbur said softly, and Phil let out a strangled noise of protest as he ran his hand along the edge of the blade, opening a gash in his hand.

“Wil, what are you—”

“You know,” Wilbur interrupted, tearing his gaze quite abruptly from the sword and instead boring into Phil’s eyes with a terrifying, feverish intensity. “I was going to ask you to do it, Phil. I still want to, really, but I know what you’ll say. I know how you treat life. It’s admirable, how much you care.” Wilbur smiled, then, a broken expression accompanied by a crack in his voice as he continued speaking.

“I’m on my last life, you know? I’m just like you, dad. I’m just like you but… you were always afraid of death, weren’t you? I used to resent you for how you treated us but it was born of fear, wasn't it?” Wilbur’s gaze dropped back to the sword. “I’m not. I’m not scared.” 

Phil’s eyes widened in horrified realisation, and he took a step forward, his hand raising, and he needed to say something, needed to do something, but his tongue felt like lead, weighed down as it was with dread and fear and he could do nothing but watch silently, a spectator in his own body.

“I was always going to die here, dad, and that’s okay,” Wilbur whispered, his voice choked despite the smile on his lips. “If it wasn’t the explosion, then it was going to be me. Or you, but, well, I wouldn’t ask this of you.”

Wilbur tipped his head up, exposing the neck, baring the single bold, black bar that stood starkly against his pale skin. He hefted the sword up, brought it to his throat, held it flush against his life tally. Phil’s heart was still in his chest, his blood frozen in his veins, and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, but he _needed_ to move, needed to tear the sword from Wilbur’s grasp and pull him from the room and away from Manberg, from the land that had driven him to _this_.

Wilbur shifted his weight slightly, swallowing heavily, the bobble of his throat visible against the blade. He reached his already-injured hand up to the tip of the blade and pressed down until blood dribbled from his throat and his palm. “I’m not scared,” he repeated, almost too quietly for Phil to hear, and there it was again, the choked tone, the cry for help buried deep beneath the layers of false confidence and steely resolve.

Wilbur’s arms tensed, and in the moment Phil was overcome by a blind panic, a raw, driving fear so strong he was able to wrench back control over his own body, force himself forward, lunging towards Wilbur, tackling him to the ground, heedless of the pain it caused his injured body.

In the future, looking back at this, the worst day of his life, Phil had realised that Wilbur’s expression had been one of fear and not resolve, that the tensing arms had been an act of hesitation and not preparation. Had he waited a moment longer, had he been able to see through his blinding, abject terror, maybe he would have recognised it then, wouldn’t have acted as aggressively and desperately in his aim to stop Wilbur.

Maybe he would have been able to use his words, to talk Wilbur down from the actions he was already hesitant to take, to stop everything before anything happened at all.

But he hadn’t, and that had been his failure.

Phil began prying Wilbur’s fingers from the hilt of the sword, but without his enhanced hybrid strength — he had tucked his wings away as soon as he had crossed L’Manberg’s border — Wilbur was able to yank his hands back, kicking his legs out and shoving Phil to the side. 

He rolled away as Phil jumped at him again, shoving himself to his feet and whirling around to face him, sword brandished. His eyes were wide and full of a wild frenzy, his chest heaved with a desire for oxygen that the dusty, smoky air couldn’t provide, his hands trembled so violently it looked like he could barely keep a grip on the weapon.

“I have to do this,” he said, backing away as Phil began advancing on him again until he was pressed against the wall. “I wasn’t meant to survive the explosion. I can’t live after having pressed the button, I- I can’t. I just can’t. Please.”

Phil didn’t even grace him with a response, feigning left then darting right, the distraction just enough for him to shove Wilbur back to the ground. This time he didn’t bother trying to loosen the hold on the sword directly, instead grabbing Wilbur’s wrist and pulling his arm up and to the side until it was held fast in a stress position. 

“Drop the sword,” Phil managed to grit out, digging his fingers into the underside of Wilbur’s wrist. His head spun in protest of the violent movement.

Despite the way his hand still shook, Wilbur’s white-knuckled grip remained strong. He strained against Phil’s hold, doing his damnedest to break free.

Phil twisted his arm warningly and felt Wilbur stiffen under him. “Drop the sword,” he repeated, aiming for a commanding tone but instead speaking in more of a broken whisper.

Phil ground his teeth together as Wilbur once again offered no response.

Better an injured son than a dead one.

Phil yanked his arm back and the cave was filled with the sickening crack of splintering bone. Wilbur let out an agonized cry, his grip on the sword slackening instantly, and the moment the weapon began tumbling to the ground Phil relinquished his hold on his wrist, grabbed the sword and tore it away. 

He started scrambling across the room, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, the adrenaline coursing through his veins leaving little in the way of rational thinking or motor skills.

Wilbur used his uninjured arm to grab onto his ankle and pulled, and Phil only barely managed to keep his feet under himself. He twisted, his eyes blown wide, to see Wilbur hoisting himself up, to his elbows then his knees then his feet, his broken arm cradled to his chest, his face twisted into a mask of fear and rage and despair.

“I was going to do it myself, Philza!” he screamed, all lucidity gone from his tone, from his expression, replaced by an intensity offered only by insanity and pain. “But if you’re not going to let that happen, then you do it! Kill me! Stab me with your sword! Murder me! Do it, Philza!”

Phil shook his head mutely, his throat far too tight to even consider choking out any words. He took a step back, then another, and as he was taking a third Wilbur’s face twisted into an ugly snarl.

“ _Kill me!_ ” he screamed, surging towards Phil in a move so violently quick and unexpected that it was all Phil could do to jerk the brandished sword to the side, away from Wilbur. But Wilbur hadn’t been aiming at the sword. He had lunged to the side, had angled himself away from the blade, wanting to get close to Philza but not to impale himself. By the time either of them realised what had happened it was far too late. 

Wilbur’s eyes widened in fear and Phil’s mouth opened in a silent scream and he knew the exact moment the blade contacted skin, could feel it in the sudden weight and resistance, could see it in the renewed tears that sprung to Wilbur’s eyes.

And there was too much force, too much momentum, and everything was moving too quickly, and suddenly Wilbur had collapsed against him, and there was a hand clutching at the back of his cloak, and Phil could feel his son’s shoulders shaking with sobs, could feel warm, sticky blood on his hands and he couldn’t breathe, could barely think through the waves of pain and guilt and regret that crashed down on him.

_This couldn’t be real._

Phil’s injured leg finally gave in, buckling underneath him, and as he collapsed to his knees. Wilbur came down with him, and all Phil could do was stare in silent horror at the bloody blade protruding from his back. 

He let go of the handle as though he had been burned, as though the action could somehow undo what he had just done, and lifted his hand to instead cradle Wilbur’s cheek. In a twist of cruel irony, it was only _now_ , after everything had been said and done, that Phil could speak, the sheer horror of his actions enough to unblock his throat. Words, meaningless words of comfort and denial and desperation were pouring from his lips before a thought passed through his pounding skull.

“Wilbur, Wil, hey, stay with me. Stay with me now. Keep your eyes open, hey, it’s okay, we’re gonna get you out of here, you’re gonna be okay, stay with me, hey, hey, you’re okay.”

Wilbur laughed wetly, the sound quickly shifting into a fit of hacking coughs, and now there was blood splattered around his mouth and lips and he was burying his head into Phil’s shoulder.

“You always told me not to lie,” Wilbur whispered, and Phil’s heart broke a little bit more. 

“No, Wilbur, no I’m not lying. I’m not lying. You’re gonna—” it was Phil’s shoulders that were shaking, now, racked by heaving cries. Wilbur’s were dangerously still. “You’re gonna get out of here. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Wilbur lifted his head, pushing himself back slightly, his movements slow and laborious. “Don’t blame yourself, dad,” he said, ignoring Phil’s words. “It’s okay. This isn’t your fault.”

Phil lifted his eyes to stare into Wilbur’s half-lidded ones. “Why didn’t you— why didn’t you stay at home?” he sobbed, drawing his son back into a final, desperate embrace. “Why did you run away? I would have protected you, Wilbur. I would have taught you to fight. I was teaching you to survive. I was— you should have—”

“Yeah,” Wilbur breathed out, barely able to speak through his gargling, shuddering breaths. There was blood in his lungs, bubbling up his throat, coating his lips, and both of them knew the inevitability of the situation. “I should have. You were always— you knew best. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, dad.”

Phil let out a shrieking, wordless wail of grief, cradling Wilbur close to his chest, and he felt it, the last breath, the last heartbeat, felt his body go limp in his arms, felt his hand drop from where it had been clutching his cloak, and he screamed all the louder because of it.

A battle was waged and fought outside, speeches given, withers summoned, withers slain, and Phil did nothing but sob He held Wilbur’s body close to his chest and wished with immeasurable desperation that it would disintegrate, fade into nothing, that it would be reformed leagues away where Wilbur would wake again, where he would live again, where everything would be okay.

It would all be okay.

But Wilbur had said it, had proved it when he had bared that single mark on his throat. He had been on his last life. While Philza had been absent he had lost two and upon his return, he had lost his third.

The hammering in his skull grew all the more intense as his adrenaline faded until every inch of him was filled by either a hollow, aching grief or an agonising throbbing that seemed to spread from his skull until it pervaded everywhere the grief didn’t. 

Black spots scattered across his vision, growing larger and darker until his vision was clouded not only by the dust that hung heavy in the air but the darkened patches that wavered and swam and rolled with no apparent reason or pattern.

Phil lost consciousness before the battle ended. 

When the smoke finally cleared, the sight the L’Manbergians were met with was that of Philza’s unconscious body kneeling in the dirt, his son’s corpse, impaled upon a shimmering diamond sword, collapsed against him and the only thing holding him up.

An explanation was formed.

 _Philza killed Wilbur as a punishment_ , is what people said. _He got to L’Manberg, failed to stop the explosion, and then murdered his own son in retaliation._ They were all too eager to believe it, to condemn Philza for a cold-hearted murder he didn’t truly commit, to blame him for his inability to stop the destruction he had had no part in causing.

But to blame is the nature of humans. Schlatt was dead, Wilbur was dead, Dream and Technoblade had fled in the aftermath of the battle and were untouchable regardless, so the citizens of L’Manberg shoved it all onto Phil’s undeserving shoulders.

When Phil woke, his head pounded with unforgiving pain and there was a man in a fiery balaclava and pristine lab coat leaning over him. “Oh!” said the man, pulling back slightly, his eyes crinkling in a way that seemed to indicate a smile. “I was wondering when you were going to wake.”

Phil blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

“I’m Ponk,” the man — Ponk, apparently — said. “I’m a doctor — thought I guess it’s sort of self-proclaimed.” his eyes narrowed slightly, as though in thought. “I’ve been meaning to get a degree.” He leaned forward again, and Phil watched warily as the ‘doctor’ held something against his head.

“You’re lucky people found you,” said Ponk. “You had an intracranial hemorrhage.” At Phil’s blank look, he elaborated. “Bleeding in your skull, caused by a traumatic head wound. You wouldn’t have lasted much longer without the potions Tubbo administered when he found you — you should thank him for that, by the way — and even then it was a close call. The kid knows his stuff, but battlefield treatments can only go so far. The explosion left some nasty wounds… I’ve managed to get rid of most of the ones that would scar, but even with potions it’ll be a few days before you properly recover.”

 _Found?_ Phil wanted to ask. _Where was I found? What explosion? Who is Tubbo? Where am I?_ But just as the questions prepared to roll from his tongue, he was overcome by the memories of what had happened.

And… _oh_.

Phil had been unable to speak in the days that followed the battle.

When he heard of the claims that had been made against him, the explanation that had formed regarding the circumstances behind Wilbur’s death, he had been in no state to refute them, to disclose what had truly occurred — he was in no state to do anything, really, other than spent his hours huddled in a house in the temporary hamlet that had been built for the duration of L’Manberg’s reconstruction.

Once he had recovered enough to explain what had truly happened, it had been far too late to change anyone’s mind.

Phil had fled, eventually. Packed up his meagre belongings and left, too overwhelmed by the hateful glares and the reminders of Wilbur and the need to free his wings from where they were tucked away.

He had found Techno, and after a brief confrontation in which Techno screamed at Phil for killing Wilbur and Phil screamed back about summoning withers and decimating an already broken country, they came to a mutual understanding of the position the other had been in.

Phil had moved in with Techno, only going back to L’Manberg once news of Wilbur’s ghostly return reached them. It hadn't been easy, seeing the ghost of his son. The first time they'd encountered each other Phil's heart had stopped, his throat had constricted, and he had forgotten how to breathe. Then Wilbur had darted towards him with a cheerful shout of "dad!" and his face had broken into a wide smile, the likes of which Phil hadn't seen in— 

He hadn't been able to remember how long it had been since he'd seen Wilbur smile like that.

Wilbur's ghost — Ghostbur, as he liked to be called — had trailed after him for the rest of the day. Their interactions had forced Phil to come to the sharp realisation that it wasn't Wilbur, not really. He didn't know much about souls or ghosts, not when research only made him bitter about his own stunted lives and brought up memories of some of the rather unpleasant experiences he'd had with those who experimented with lives, but it was painfully clear that Ghostbur was nothing more than an echo, a shell, with so much of what made him _him_ lost to the afterlife or compartmentalised for the sake of the ghost's own sanity.

The realisation had, somehow, both worsened and lessened the pain. 

Phil purchased a house in the rebuilt nation but only visited occasionally, no longer than a week at a time due to the need to hide his wings and the hostility he still received, though the latter may have been paranoia.

Ghostbur knew little of his own death, admitting that he remembered nothing prior to Phil holding him as he passed. His return had, however, gone far in helping mend Phil’s reputation within L’Manberg’s citizens. To them, apparently, filicide wasn't so bad when the victim's spirit was still around.

Interesting morals, there.

Phil began building a relationship with Fundy, the son he had never known Wilbur had had (he was sure there was a story there) and whose aging, altered for all hybrids, had apparently been sped up. There were precious few other explanations for why the fox hybrid was more than a bundle of squalling two-year-old.

Phil's relationship with Tommy was something he had been unable to salvage. 

He couldn’t help but notice that his youngest constantly wore a green bandana around his neck — an apparent symbol of connection with Tubbo, another person Phil had had the pleasure of meeting and who wore a matching red bandana around his neck — but something that also served to hide his life tally from the outside world.

Phil wondered how many lives Tommy had left, but it was no longer his place to know.

He had learned, eventually. Learned through books and conversations and Ghostbur's idle chatter. Learned of the revolution and the election and the festival. Learned of a treachery and a duel and an execution. Leaned of the nation's violent, bloodstained, wartorn history. Learned of the lives Tommy had lost, that Wilbur had lost, that everyone in the nation he was residing in had lost.

And it had hurt, hearing of all his sons had gone through while he wasn't there to see them through it. But there had been nothing to do but mend — or at least attempt to mend — the bridges that had been burnt.

One thing he kept close to his chest, however, was his continued contact with Technoblade. When posters calling for his arrest were posted around L’Manberg, Phil had nearly laughed. He wasn’t sure what this ragtag community thought they could do against his son but decided rather wisely to keep his thoughts to himself.

When he relayed the information to Techno, however, he had found it similarly hilarious.

Things were far from perfect, but Phil was surviving.

He was surviving, and that was what mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was never meant to be o7
> 
> [THIS CHAPTER HAS A COVER](https://twitter.com/timx_stuff/status/1364318226495102979?s=20)!!! IT’S BY TIMX AND IS SO COOL  
> EPIC [FANART](https://twitter.com/HIOBOWY/status/1363657260149448705) BY KURO, OF PHIL STABBING WILBUR  
> AND [MORE](https://twitter.com/_megaronii_/status/1363663349880340482?s=20) BY MEGARONII, SKETCHES OF VARIOUS POINTS OF THE CHAPTER
> 
>  **warnings:**  
>  first section - discussion of the existential aspect of death  
> second section - spiders  
> third section - canonical attempted suicide, manslaughter, canonical character death


	22. Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No parent should have mourn the death of their child and yet here he was, doing it a second time. Here he was, burying a second son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy so the streams, amirite? 
> 
> anyway in this chapter i set up somewhat of a timeline of all the preceding events (like the l'manberg war and election and stuff) and just... please suspend your disbelief a bit? especially regarding the ages of people?? mainly fundy??? the timeline is already just canonically so fucked up so while i tried my best there's really only so much that can be done
> 
> warnings at the bottom of the end notes

When Phil woke on the morning of the 23rd, he was prepared for a dull, monotonous day. Those words were, of course, rather apt descriptions of prison life in general, but they were broken up by Tubbo’s visits, visits that added a spark of difference to the sea of grey, that he was able to look forward to to distract him from… everything else.

Today, however, Phil wasn’t expecting any visitors. Tubbo was going to Logsted to see Tommy and over the course of his incarceration there had been no one else thoughtful enough to come by him — not that there was anyone else in L’Manberg he would particularly want to see.

It meant he was going to be spending longer alone than he ever had during his imprisonment. The very thought of it made his wings twitch with the urge to curl around him, as though they could somehow stave off everything that made itself known when Phil was left with the company of nothing but his own thoughts.

Breakfast was delivered, as usual, by some unrecognisable, faceless guard. Like clockwork, it happened at the same time each day and by this point, it was almost muscle memory for Phil to push himself to his feet, cross the cell, and pick up the tray. He sat against the wall, picked up the spoon, and pushed it sullenly around the bowl his food had come in. He grimaced. Cold, soggy oats. Again.

Absolutely fantastic.

Sometimes, when Tubbo visited, he would sneak food in with him. Never anything truly substantial — _“I wish I had more but… Quackity doesn’t really let me bring anything at all. He doesn’t know I even have this.”_ — but still something that differed from the bland, unappetising mush that he was otherwise served.

That wasn’t going to happen today.

Phil ate the food slowly. It was tasteless and had a texture comparative to that of regurgitated cat food — just like everything else he was delivered — but he knew that, once he was done, there would be nothing else to take up his attention.

And when there was nothing else to take up his attention, he was left to his thoughts. And his thoughts…

Well, they were something Phil would rather avoid.

Inevitably, though, he finished the food. Phil pushed the tray back under the cell door and retreated back to his previous position, wishing for something, _anything_ to do, to fill his hands with, even just something to look at that differed from the cell he had become far too familiar with.

His fingers itched with the longing for something to do.

Phil spread his right wing out, curled it around himself, and lifted a hand to card it through the feathers. The urge to tug at them, to pick his feathers apart, to pull them from his wings — it was strong, almost overpoweringly so. An avian instinct, a coping mechanism, unhealthy as it was, to deal with stressful situations.

Phil grit his teeth and lowered his hand back to his lap. The broken chain connected to the manacle rattled dully. He couldn’t, not with the visible proof the action would leave. The feathers scattered on the ground, the bare patches on his wings, the blood that would spill from the wounds. Tubbo… he didn’t need to see that. He didn’t need the added stress.

Phil groaned and buried his head in his hands.

The only thing he had asked Tubbo for was the removal of the clamps on his wings. There was so much more he wished for — better lighting, blankets, books, any form of comfort or entertainment — but he never asked, knowing that Tubbo would almost certainly not be able to supply any of it and that it would only serve to make him guilty.

He let his hands drop back down, stared down at his wrists, at the broken manacles that were still, after all these days (had it been weeks, yet? He didn’t know. It was the 23rd but… what date had he been arrested? How long had passed? Time was losing its meaning), wrapped around them. Maybe, when Tubbo got back, he would ask for a second thing. Surely the president would be able to access the key that kept the manacles locked around his wrists.

He had broken the chain connecting them all those days (weeks?) ago, during his bout of desperate rage as his wings had been bound. Since then, no one had thought to remove them and they remained on his wrists, to weigh down his hands, to rub the skin from his wrists, to send sparks of pain shooting through his arms every time he moved too sharply or suddenly.

It was the sort of thing that drove in just how fucked up L’Manberg’s laws and regulations were.

And yet he had found, over the endless hours, that it was also the sort of thing that he had grown used to. When things got really bad, when he reached the lowest of his lows, the sharp, stabbing pain was almost grounding. A burning reminder that as bad as things were, he was real. He was there.

They were facts that managed to get lost amongst the endless hours that stretched between Tubbo’s visits.

Phil shook his head, pushed himself to his feet, started pacing the cell. His wings flexed and flared, the feathers fluffing up and pressing down in mindless, repetitive motions. It was pointless, but it was better than remaining idle.

It helped drive back the thoughts that threatened to swamp him.

Even so, he was unable to completely stop the emotion that dug its icy fingers into the fissures of his mind and began pulling, tugging at the hanging threads of fear and hopelessness and despair, dragging out everything he tried so desperately to bury.

Phil was no stranger to being alone. He had spent years of his life alone, with nothing but the company of the pets he tamed and the mobs he captured. Alone he could handle. Building, mining, farming — Phil had a world and he knew how to fill it.

But the loneliness he had experienced ever since his incarceration, it was new. It was something Phil had never had to deal with. And, as the days stretched on with nothing but visits from Tubbo, who could only stay for a few hours at most, it had become apparent that it was something he _couldn’t_ deal with. 

Phil had thought there was nothing that could possibly be worse than the weeks that followed Wilbur’s death, but this imprisonment and everything that came with it... in so many ways, it was worse than grief. Because this was endless. He had had no trial, no semblance of a real sentence. No mention of parole or eventual freedom. No timeframe of how long he would be here, drowning in misery and regret, the only thing stopping a complete breakdown being Tubbo and the need to hold himself together for his sake. 

Phil hadn’t taken the one chance he had of escape. When Tubbo had freed his wings and he had been faced with the choice, he had decided he would rather stay here than break Tubbo’s trust. 

It wasn’t looking like there would be any other openings. 

He had tried, once, to use the enhanced strength that came with his freed wings, his unbound hybrid power, to break the bars of his cell but found he wasn’t even able to get them to budge. Dream had managed to entangle Tubbo in the web of his lies, eliminating any future chances of them staging an escape attempt together, and over all his visits, Tubbo hadn’t mentioned the faintest whisper of the only other ally Phil had in the world. Techno.

And here, Phil was torn. On the one hand, he was thankful that Techno hadn’t shown up in L’Manberg — the entire reason he was trapped in this godforsaken prison was to keep the country’s citizens _away_ from him, to keep him safe from those that wished to take his lives. But on the other… well, with everything the way it was, a rescue was the only viable way he could see himself getting out. And if he didn’t escape, even with Tubbo’s visits, Phil didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. 

Phil thought back to the burning compass that had landed him here, but quickly shut that train of thought down. Thinking of his mistakes — though he still wasn’t sure whether throwing the compass into the fire had been a mistake — would make him spiral from hopelessness to regret, and, as bad as this was, Phil knew that his regrets were worse. His regrets were a yawning void that would, if he wasn’t careful, swallow him whole.

So instead, he stewed in his own self-pity.

Eventually and inevitably, a memory surfaced. Strangely enough, it was not a memory of grief nor was it one of regret. It was a memory from a happier time, one from before pain and failure and death. It was a memory from when he had been young and his sons even younger.

_-_

_“Dad! Look what I got!”_

_Phil glanced up from the longbow he was teaching Techno to string. Tommy, seven at the time, was sprinting towards him, his face stretched into a wide, jubilant grin, his hands clutching the hilt of a finely honed iron sword. Back then, the vast majority of their tools had been iron, as Phil had been too concerned over the safety of his sons to take the days-long trip required to harvest resources like diamond or netherite. Wilbur, eleven, was running after him, his eyes wide, his expression panicked._

_Techno let out a groan as Phil set down the bow and stood. “Really?” he asked. “You’ve barely taught me anything yet… can’t you just tell him to piss off?”_

_Phil silenced him with a look and started towards his youngest. “Tommy,” he said, once they were close enough to speak without shouting. He crouched down, his wings fanning out behind him. “Where did you get that?”_

_“Wilby showed me some hidden chests he’d found!” Tommy exclaimed gleefully, guilelessly, gesturing wildly over to his brother who had stopped a ways off and was bent over, hands on his knees, red-faced and panting for breath. At Tommy’s declaration, Wilbur looked up sharply, something like betrayal flashing in his expression.“He said we could go mining, but I wanted to show you first!”_

_Phil knew exactly what chests Tommy was talking about. They contained all the weapons and armour he had deemed too unsafe for his sons to handle without his supervision. He raised his eyes to Wilbur, who seemed to be about to protest but, upon meeting Phil’s gaze, looked away._

_“Tommy,” Phil said, keeping his eyes on Wilbur. “What have I told you about mining? What have I told you about swords?”_

_Tommy paused for a moment, scrunched his face up in thought, and then shrugged. “I dunno, I wasn’t listening.”_

_Phil sighed. “It’s too dangerous, Tommy. You’ve got to wait until your lessons. You’ve got to wait until I’m there,” he said, holding out one of his hands. “Give me the sword, please.”_

_Tommy pouted, lifting a finger to point behind Phil. “But Techno gets to play with swords when you’re not there! He gets to shoot arrows! And Wilby had all the swords and you weren’t there!”_

_“Techno is older than you,” Phil said patiently. “And Wilbur isn’t meant to have access to any weapons.” At that, Wilbur scuffed his foot guiltily. “Now, give me the sword.”_

_Tommy glanced back at Wilbur for guidance, but his older brother still had his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. Still, he hesitated, unwilling to part from his trophy._

_“Hey,” Phil said, adopting a gentler tone. “After I finish teaching Techno, we can have a lesson together. How does that sound?”_

_Tommy blinked up at him with wide eyes. “Promise?”_

_Phil smiled. “Promise.”_

_Tommy was grinning again as he hefted up the sword to place the hilt in Phil’s hand._

_Afterwards, Phil had reprimanded Wilbur. He had also moved his hidden stash of weapons._

_The lesson with Tommy had gone well._

-

Phil leaned against a wall, closed his eyes, and lowered his head. Memories like that were, in some ways, worse than the negative ones. As he was now, they served as nothing but a reminder of everything he had lost, of all the ways he had failed.

Phil sunk into a seated position.

He was someone who had failed a lot.

-

_Techno left home the day after his seventeenth birthday._

_Phil protested, begged him to wait another year, another two, but Techno was firm and unwavering in his resolve. He wanted to explore, to learn, to grow, and his desire had grown past what Phil could provide._

_Though Phil hated it, though he missed Techno every day he was gone, he wasn’t overly worried. Techno had been so insistent upon leaving was because Phil had no longer been able to keep up with him. He had begun to lose more spars than he won, had run out of things to teach, had imparted upon him everything he knew from combat to building to farming — and Techno had learned and retained it with an interest and a passion shared by neither of his brothers._

_In the years following Techno’s departure, it was just Phil and his youngest sons._

_Tommy had always held Technoblade in hero-like regard, following after his footsteps, mirroring him in all the ways he could, doing his best to make his eldest brother proud of him — not that Techno, focused, dedicated, downright disdainful at times, ever paid him much heed._

_This, Phil thought, was why Tommy was at least somewhat willing to learn what he had to teach. He wanted to one day be able to impress Techno._

_And while Tommy groaned and whined and complained, while he was nowhere near as quick or interested in picking things up as Techno had been, he tried. He tried, and Phil could tell that he tried, and in the end, that was what mattered. As long as Tommy was willing to put effort into learning, Phil would be willing to put effort into teaching._

_Wilbur, on the other hand, had swiftly abandoned any interest he may have had in learning to survive in the harsh reality of the world, had lost the child-like awe he had once held over the idea of combat and mob hunting and adventure, and flat-out refused to be taught anything he needed to know._

_He would rather spend his days in his room, playing the guitar Phil had gotten him for his thirteenth birthday, writing out songs and poetry and speeches, reading about past nations and rulers and daydreaming about becoming one of the charismatic leaders he read about in his history books._

_It frustrated Phil to no end._

_Wilbur knew the basics of survival, sure. He knew what Phil had managed to teach him when he had been young enough to be enthusiastic. And for many people, many parents, that would be enough. Because they were human, they lived in civilizations, societies, and in groups, not every individual needed to know how to do everything._

_But Phil wasn't many parents. Phil didn't live with three lives, and that_ _had led him to having experiences that had shaped him, his stances, his priorities, into something no one else shared._

_He wanted his sons to be prepared for the world, to know how to fight off all of the many dangers it held, to be able to not just survive but to thrive, to build and farm and forage and enjoy doing it all — just as Phil did. But Wilbur thought it was useless and unnecessary and refused to listen to anything he attempted to teach._

_And Phil hated forcing his sons to do things they despised._ _He dragged Wilbur into the lessons, yes, but what he really wanted was to find a way to get him actively interested in learning the skills that would quite literally save his life._

_In Phil’s experience, practical lessons were always preferred over theoretical ones. Actively going places — whether it be hunting monsters, caving, or simply exploring — was preferred over combat training and sparring in the plains surrounding their house._

_Using this knowledge Phil had, on Techno’s sixteenth birthday, taken him to the nether for the first time. He had fretted over leaving Tommy and Wilbur alone, but after the residents of a nearby village had assured him they would keep his sons safe, he had gone ahead with it._

_Phil thought that, maybe, he could do the same with Wilbur, that he could take him to the nether on his sixteenth birthday and that maybe seeing the foreign environments and mobs and vegetation would spark an interest in his middle son. Everything else he had tried with him had been useless, met with glares and protests and a growing resentment that shone through his eyes and posture and every interaction they had. Maybe this would be different._

_He wanted to make it a surprise, wanted to keep any hint of his plans away from either of his sons. As such, when he left home in the weeks approaching Wilbur’s birthday, to go to the nether and gather ancient debris so their trip would be as safe as possible, he let them know nothing of what he was doing. He told Wilbur that he would be gone for a while, that he needed to take care of Tommy, twelve at the time, in his absence. Wilbur’s lip curled into a slight sneer and he nodded, shortly, stiffly, before slamming his door in Phil’s face._

_Phil hovered worriedly by Wilbur’s room for a few minutes longer before heaving a sigh and retreating. He left early the next morning._

_He planned on forging Wilbur a full set of enchanted netherite armour and tools for his birthday. He would gift the gear to his son, who could then use it on a venture into the nether. It would minimize the risk of the trip — the nether was, after all, a dangerous place, and Wilbur didn’t have nearly as much skill as Techno had when Phil had taken him — and would show Wilbur how much he cared. It was, as Phil thought, a foolproof plan._

_It took longer than planned to get enough ancient debris. By the time he gathered enough, Wilbur’s birthday was five days away. By the time he smelted the debris all down into ingots, in a small base by his nether portal, three days remained. The rush to forge the pre-prepared diamond gear into netherite had led to it having flaws that could have otherwise been avoided, but he managed in the nick of time, finishing on September 13, the day before Wilbur’s birthday._

_When he returned, the house was empty._

_Dread choked him. He dropped the gear bundled in his arms, tore through the house, frantically searching for some sign of his sons. The fireplace was cold, the food lining the pantry untouched and half-spoiled, the beds and tabletops covered by a fine coat of dust. The most damning piece of evidence was Wilbur's missing guitar._ _His sons weren’t there, and they hadn’t been there for at least a few days._

_He found nothing but a slip of paper, words scrawled on it in Wilbur’s distinctive cursive._

_Words scrawled on it that stilled his heart._

**_We’re going. Don’t come after us._ **

_They had run away. For the first minutes, first hours, it hadn’t seemed real. Phil hadn’t understood._

_Why?_

_Why would they flee?_

_He could have tracked them down, could have dragged them back, could have punished them, but…_

_Maybe there was a lesson to be learned in this, in the fact that they wanted to leave so badly that they would go to these lengths, that they would go without the faintest warning or any sort of goodbye. Maybe it spoke of him as a father._

_Phil was someone who made an effort to respect his sons as the individuals they were. He respected their decisions and desires — it was why he had gone to the effort of trying to make Wilbur interested in what he had to teach rather than continuing to just force him to learn, even though that had, apparently, fallen through._

_And while he didn’t understand why they had run away, maybe all that spoke of was where he had failed, of what had led to this. He simply hadn’t understood, hadn’t realised the effects of what he was doing. Phil didn’t just want his sons to survive, he wanted them to live. He wanted them to live and he wanted them to enjoy life._

_And forcing them to learn what they didn’t want to, what they despised, wasn’t the way to do that._

_So, as much as it pained him to do so, the words on the paper had forced him to accept that maybe what he was doing hadn’t been productive, hadn’t been helpful. So he had listened to the words. He had trusted in his sons, in their decisions, in their choices._

_He had later learned that it had been Wilbur that had been the one to run away, and had dragged Tommy along with him. They had gone to the Dream SMP, a nation that stood an ocean away, that Wilbur had read about, that he had believed held a promise of a new life and a fresh start. They had met people, gained allies, made friends, had lived there in relative contentment and peace for all of two years._

_Then they had started a revolution._

_A revolution that had taken one of Wilbur’s lives and two of Tommy’s, that had led to an election that had taken Wilbur’s second life and an explosion, a confrontation, an accident, that had taken his third._

_Wilbur may not have wanted to learn to fight, but, apparently, he was more than willing to start a nation. He resented Phil for trying to teach him skills that would save him, had gone so far as to run away, but he was more than willing to drag his brother, his friends, his son, into a hopeless war._

_Such were the contradictions of humans._

_And Phil was sure there was more to it than that, more to the story, more to Wilbur’s side of things. He was sure there was more to his reasons behind running away, something more than just Phil’s failure. There had to be more to it because if there wasn’t it meant he had failed in an immeasurable way. But he didn’t know it, he didn’t understand, and he was unable to get Wilbur’s perspective because he was gone, he was gone and when they finally reunited it was far too late to find anything out._

_Such was the nature of miscommunications._

-

The creaking of the prison door opening was what snapped Phil from the recollections. He winced as the sound echoed through his skull — he was finding, as the days passed, that he was growing more and more sensitive to any sensations that differed from the dark silence of his cell — and was driven by curiosity to push himself to his feet and make his way over to the bars of his cell.

It had only been a few hours, at most. No one was meant to be here. So why, then, could he hear someone coming down the corridor?

The approaching footsteps were fast and uneven, as though the person was staggering slightly as they walked. If Phil didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn he recognised the sound and weight of the footfalls, but it didn’t make sense. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Tubbo was supposed to be visiting Tommy.

No one was supposed to come to see him today.

Which was why, when Tubbo barrelled into view, moving on unstable legs, looking as though he had been put through the wringer fifty times over, Phil felt his heart plummet.

Tubbo was, to put it simply, a wreck. His eyes, wide and bloodshot and full of wild, unchecked emotion, were locked with Phil’s. His face was red and blotchy and the skin around his eyes was raised and puffy and wet with the tears that streaked down his cheeks, that hung from his chin, that splashed onto the rough rock below. His arms were wrapped tightly around himself, but even so, Phil could see the way his shoulders shook and his hands trembled and the instability with which he stood.

Phil clutched desperately at the bars of his cell. “Tubbo? Tubbo what’s wrong? Why aren’t you— what happened?”

Tubbo’s arms tightened around his shaking form, and his wide eyes dropped to the ground. He inhaled deeply, a breath that was uneven and stuttered in his throat and got cut off by a choked sob. “Phil—” Tubbo’s voice cracked mid-word, and he took a stumbling step forward, reaching out and gripping the bars in an attempt to keep himself upright.

Another shuddering breath. “Phil he—” the words were once again strangled in Tubbo’s throat, the sentence dying before it even began.

Phil reached forward and clasped his hands over Tubbo’s, a tiny, pitiful attempt at physical comfort. It was all he had to offer. The pit of dread that had lodged itself in his throat threatened to choke his own words as he spoke. “Tubbo, hey, look up at me. You’ve got to breathe. You’ve got to breathe.”

Tubbo opened his mouth to speak again but closed it before any words came out. Instead, he shook his head wordlessly and slowly sank to his knees despite the white-knuckled grip he had on the metal bars. It was only once he had dropped to his knees that he truly began to cry, heaving, racking, gut-wrenching sobs that came with the force of a person retching on all fours.

Phil crouched by him, wishing so desperately for a way to break through the bars, to wrap his arms and wings around Tubbo, to do _something_ other than sit there, able to do nothing but wait, but whisper meaningless reassurances, but support Tubbo with words where he couldn’t with anything else.

Once Phil found out what was wrong, he would be able to do more. He would be able to focus his words on what the problem actually was. He would know what it was that needed fixing, what it was that had broken Tubbo in the first place.

He pushed aside the sinking dread in his stomach that told him he didn’t _want_ to know, the part of him that refused to consider the possibilities and was contrasted by the part that whispered all sorts of horrible, impossible scenarios into his mind.

_They’re not impossible._

Phil grit his teeth and shook his head, as though he was trying to dispel the thoughts from his head. “Tubbo,” he said, the slight shake of his voice betraying the fear he felt. He swallowed heavily. He had to ask. He had to know. He had to find out what Tubbo had seen, what he had learned, that had reduced him to this 

But he didn’t want to know. He desperately didn’t want to know. Ignorance was bliss, and right then Phil wanted nothing more than to retain that ignorance. 

Phil barely managed to push the two-worded question past the lump in his throat. “What happened?”

He had to know. 

The question only served to intensify the sobs that continued to tear themselves from Tubbo’s throat, that continued to tear into Phil’s heart. 

Phil swallowed again and, steeling himself against the answer that he was digging for, that he dreaded, repeated the question — louder, firmer, with a command in his voice that he hoped would snap Tubbo from his anguished stupor.

Tubbo’s shoulders stilled, his entire frame stiffening in response to the forceful tone. If possible, he seemed to curl further in on himself. He inhaled one last strangled, shuddering breath before he began to speak, choking out words that were barely intelligible but managed to gouge deep scars into Phil’s heart all the same.

“Tommy— he… he’s not… he wasn’t— he's d- _dead_ Phil. Because of the exile, because of my decision, he’s dead, he died, he’s gone and— and it was his last life. It was his last life a- and it’s gone because of me, he— he took it because of me. Phil I—” another cry bubbled from Tubbo’s throat, cutting off his broken sentences and sending him into another fit of sobs. 

But Phil wasn’t listening.

Phil couldn’t listen.

A loud, persistent pounding drowned out everything else. He could hear it, nearly deafening, roaring in his ears, could feel it in his temples and his wrists and his chest. It was his heart, rattling away at his ribs, sending blood tearing through his veins. His breathing, too, was suffocatingly loud, but even as he inhaled he felt like he couldn’t get any air, felt like he couldn’t breathe. The ground had dropped away from below Phil’s feet and he was falling, he was falling, and his wings were nothing but useless weights on his back, and there was nothing but swirling grief and rage and sorrow and regret, and it was choking him, strangling him, and he couldn’t breathe.

Tommy was dead. 

Phil lurched forward from where he was crouched, landed heavily on his knees, reached his hands up to tangle them in his hair, pulled at the filthy locks, lowered his head, tried to inhale, to draw air through his throat that had tightened and constricted and that he couldn’t breathe through. A scream, a despairing, keening wail that was more avian than human in nature, ripped itself from his chest, forced itself through his teeth, reverberated through his cell and the prison corridor, bounced off the walls and the floor and whipped around the room like a storm.

Tommy was dead.

Phil rocked on his knees. His eyes were burning, his chest and throat were far too tight, his wings were stiff and rigid behind his back. He could taste bile rising in his throat, could feel nausea clawing at his stomach and he was going to be sick, and he was falling, and he was drowning, and he couldn’t breathe.

And his son was _dead_.

Phil had failed. He had failed Tommy just like he had failed Wilbur, just like he had sworn to never do again. No parent should have mourn the death of their child and yet here he was, doing it a second time. Here he was, burying a second son.

Phil let out another wailing cry.

-

_After Wilbur’s death, it had taken some time before Tommy had spoken to Phil._

_It had only been after Phil had fled, met with Techno, then come back upon Wilbur’s ghostly return that Tommy had faced him again, and even then, every word had been short and clipped, full of grief and rage and blame. That had been when Tommy had taken to referring to Phil by name._

_Phil had asked about it once. Tommy had whipped around to face him, his eyes narrow and full of vicious, burning hatred, and spat, “I will not call the man who murdered my brother my father,_ **_Philza_** _.”_

_Phil had flinched back, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes dropping down to his hands that were suddenly crimson and sticky and dripping with blood, with Wilbur’s blood, with his son’s blood that he would never be able to scrub them clean of. The words had hit like an arrow, buried themselves deep into his heart, burned like the venom they had been filled with._

_He couldn’t explain what had really happened, couldn’t put that day into words, couldn’t relive Wilbur’s death and what had led to it. Just thinking about it made it hard to breathe, he wouldn’t be able to bear discussing it. Even if he had, it wasn’t like he would be believed. It wasn’t like he would be able to override the narrative that had been crafted and accepted by L’Manberg._

_Phil hadn’t raised the topic with Tommy again._

_He had still tried, for a while afterwards, to fix things between them. Nothing had worked. He could only spend so much time in L’Manberg — the need to keep his wings hidden stopped him from staying any longer than a week — and whenever he tried speaking to or spending time with Tommy he was busy, working on his projects or filling his role as Vice President or even just talking with the friends he had made while Phil had been absent._

_He wasn’t sure whether or not it was intentional, but it had forced Phil to swallow a bitter pill._

_He no longer had a place in Tommy’s life._

_After Tommy’s exile, Phil had tried to gather information on his location. None had been forthcoming. He could have, he should have dug deeper. Instead, he had dropped it, keeping half an ear open for anything that came his way but otherwise turning his attention to other matters._

_His reasoning had been that even if he did find out, if he did go to Tommy, he wouldn’t have been welcome._

_His reasoning had led to his son’s death._

-

There were tears, now, blurring his vision, pouring down his cheeks. Phil didn’t know when they had begun falling. He clenched his eyes shut, lowered his hands until he could dig the heels of his palms into his burning eyes.

There were no words that could be said. Not here, not now, not with the soul-shattering news that had just been delivered. Phil’s hope, his worthless hope that had led him to think he could fix things once he knew what ‘things’ were — it was all gone, replaced by the sharp, stabbing pain of horror and guilt and denial, the latter of which had been swept away by the former two long before it could make its mark.

Phil’s fingernails were digging small, bloody crescents where they dug into his scalp, the constant movement of his arms was making the manacles rub against his raw wrists, his entire body ached with weariness and pain that went so much deeper than the physical level. His shoulders shook from the force of the sobs that wracked his form, his wings trembled where they extended behind his back, his chest burned from the force of the emotions that swirled within it.

And yet, he could barely feel any of it. 

He could barely feel anything, not physically. His body felt numb.

There was nothing to do but sit in silence and mourn.

-o-

Minutes or hours had passed, Phil didn’t know which, by the time he recovered enough to speak. Tubbo was curled against the far wall, his head buried in his knees, his shoulders no longer shaking. He was still. He had been all wrung out of the emotion that had previously overwhelmed him. 

Phil felt much the same. 

Now that the initial wave of horror and shock and anguish had passed, all he felt was a hollow, throbbing grief. It hurt in an indescribable way, but was, at the very least, something he was able to think through.

“Tubbo,” Phil managed to choke out. Tubbo’s response was a tiny tilt of his head, the president still too devastated to form a proper response but able to do enough to show he was listening. “Tubbo you can’t… you have to go. You have to… sleep. Eat. Take care of yourself.”

The words were what Phil knew he had to say, but they still grated painfully as they passed over his tongue. Because they weren’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to sob, to cry — _stay here,_ _don’t go, don’t leave me alone, please stay._ But that wasn’t what Tubbo needed.

Phil was trapped here. Tubbo was not.

Tubbo lifted his head slowly, laboriously, until he was staring at Phil with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He took a breath and said, his voice little more than a whisper, “I don’t… I can’t… where do I go? Who do I go _to_?”

Phil’s gaze dropped to the ground. Tubbo was right. L’Manberg was a nation that held few friends of his. There was Dream and Quackity and Fundy and… “could you go to Ranboo?” 

Tubbo lowered his eyes again, shook his head jerkily. “I… I used to be able to. I could tell him stuff, I talked to him like I talk to you. I talked to him _about_ you. But… he’s changed. I think… I think it’s been since Dream arrived. I—” Tubbo buried his head back into his knees. “I don’t know why, but he’s different. He’s different. I can’t go to him.”

Phil swallowed. He had to think. He had to keep Tubbo safe.

No one in L’Manberg was safe. No one in L’Manberg... 

Phil’s eyes widened as the faintest seed of an idea was planted in his mind, in a corner dammed off from the flood of grief that swamped everything else. He had been too hesitant to suggest something like it in the past, too worried about the consequences of what would happen if it was taken the wrong way or Tubbo tried to do it and was caught. 

But gone was the time for caution and hesitance. Everything had fallen down around him, shattered into a thousand pieces, and there was one thing Phil could do to gather them together.

He had failed Wilbur. He had failed Tommy. 

He wouldn’t do the same for Techno.

He wouldn’t do the same for _Tubbo_.

And those two things could relate.

Because while Phil was trapped here, Tubbo was not.

Swallowing heavily in an attempt to clear the thickness from his throat, Phil said, “Tubbo, go to my house. If you pull up the crafting table, you’ll find a barrel. Please, bring me its contents.”

“What?” Tubbo croaked out, his brows furrowing. “Wh… why? What’s there?”

Phil reached up a hand to rake it anxiously through his filthy hair. This idea was for Tubbo. If he wasn’t honest about it then none of it would work. If he didn't trust him then he couldn't do it in the first place. “Techno and I set up a… communication system, of sorts. Redstone, enchantments, runes… you know the stuff. That barrel, its contents — it’ll get me in contact with him.”

Once Tubbo came back with the communicator, Phil would tell him where he had to go to find Techno — north of L’Manberg, past an ocean, in the arctic — and use the limited capacities of the communicator to briefly inform Techno of Tubbo’s impending approach. Once the kid found the cabin he could properly tell Techno what was going on and then Phil could be saved and everything would work out. Everything had to work out.

Tubbo’s eyes widened at the instruction, shining with a sort of apprehensive horror. “Phil… I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that. You’re a prisoner, Techno’s a fugitive. Quackity… Dream… they’re not—”

At the mention of their names, a wave of hissing, bubbling anger rose in Phil’s chest. “You _need_ to do this, Tubbo. You need to get away from Quackity. You need to get away from _Dream_. They’re no friends of yours. They don’t have your, they don’t have _L’Manberg_ ’s best interest at heart.”

“But—”

“There’s no _but_ !” Phil snarled, his wings flaring out instinctively. Tubbo cringed back, drawing his hands close to his chest. “There’s no choice here anymore! It’s not… everything’s out of your hands! How do you not _see_? Everything’s broken and it’s them! It’s those two fucking—” he turned sharply, cutting off the hateful words that lay on the tip of his tongue. “This is our final stand, Tubbo. You need to get me in contact with Techno.”

He was being too forceful. Phil knew he was being _far_ too forceful, too aggressive, but this desperate, burning rage was all that was holding him together. The moment he calmed, he would be once again swamped by the tide of grief and hopelessness and despair that would shatter him and smother the flickering flame of hope that burnt amongst his anger.

It was only because of the tense silence following his words that Phil was able to hear the slight rustle that came from above, just barely picked up by his enhanced hearing. His head jerked up and he searched through the darkness, searched for a source. A gleam of red, of green, then a quiet warp and a rush of displaced air and there was nothing but a faint purple glow.

Phil blinked, shook his head, and narrowed his eyes. Nothing but darkness. Had he imagined it?

“Tubbo,” Phil said quietly, his anger overridden by a sudden wariness, his gaze locked on the impregnable dark. The president was silent. He still hadn’t responded to Phil's harsh words nor his snarled accusations. “Does this corridor have some sort of a ventilation system?

Tubbo shifted, his brow crinkling ever-so-slightly, his eyes following Phil’s upwards. “I don’t— why does it matter?” He shook his head, snapping his gaze back down. “Phil, no. You’re not gonna— I can’t let you. I can’t… I don’t…”

“Tubbo,” Phil said softly, letting his eyes drop from the roof — he’d probably imagined it and there were more important things to deal with — and fighting to hold back the sorrow that, just as predicted, accompanied his forced calm. “Trust me on this, _please_. We don’t have much time. Things are… they’re not good. But you can— _we_ can get out of here. Please.”

Tubbo pressed his hands against the wall, dragging himself to his feet but continuing to lean on the rock. “Okay,” he said quietly. He reached up a hand to scrub at his eyes. “Okay, Phil.”

Phil let out a gusty exhale, letting out air and a tension he hadn’t known he had been holding. First step, done. This would work. This had to work. He couldn’t fail, not like he had for… 

His wings flexed agitatedly and he pivoted, stalking to the back of his cell, twisting around, pacing back to the front. Tubbo watched him silently. 

“Go,” Phil said shortly, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Remember, barrel under the crafting table.”

Tubbo nodded carefully. He pushed himself from the wall and started down the corridor.

Phil turned again and strode to the back of the cell.

He didn’t see the hesitant glance Tubbo shot his way, nor the spark of discomfort, of dis _trust_ that flashed through his expression.

By the time he walked back to the bars, Tubbo was gone. 

Ideas and theories crowded his head, but that was good. They held back thoughts of the news he had been delivered and the grief that accompanied it. They were what he needed.

Everything had been going well. Phil’s pushing had been edging Tubbo towards independence, towards control, towards freedom from Quackity’s manipulation. It had been working, and things had, for the briefest time, looked like they were going to be okay. And then Dream had arrived and plotted with Quackity and told Tubbo to visit Logsted. What Tubbo saw had shattered him, washed away all the progress, the confidence, left him a broken shadow. 

What had Dream been doing before his arrival? Where had Dream been all this time? Even before Phil's imprisonment, during Tommy’s — his heart stuttered to a stop at the thought of his name but he kept walking, kept pacing, kept thinking, and was just able to push through — exile, the man had been strangely absent from both L’Manberg and the Dream SMP. Phil’s pacing skidded to a stop, his eyes widening in horrified realization.

Dream had known where Tommy was. Dream had been markedly absent since Tommy had been exiled. Dream had sent Tubbo to Logsted.

It can't have been a coincidence.

Phil whirled towards the bars of his cell. He had to tell Tubbo as soon as he returned. It shouldn’t take too long. It wouldn’t take too long. He reached out and tugged at the feathers of his left wing. Even with everything that was clicking together, the horrific puzzle of his situation was far from complete.

But before he could do anything with his realisation, Tubbo had to return with the communicator. He needed to get in contact with Techno. It was a plan that would work. It was a plan that had to work. 

Minutes ticked by.

Phil twisted his fingers anxiously. He didn’t know where the prison was relative to the rest of L’Manberg. Tubbo was probably still walking to his house. A wait was to be expected.

He retreated to the back of the cell, his head spinning with the connections he was making and discarding. Dream’s arrival was no coincidence. He was connected to this all. But that raised so many more questions, questions whose answers he needed more information to find.

So many pieces, scattered around him. Those he had fit together formed a grisly picture but there was so much more to slot in.

Everything was in such disarray.

Phil grabbed the bars of the cell, tugged at them pointlessly for a moment, then twisted and walked back to the corner. His heartbeat was loud. He swallowed. His tongue felt like it was coated by ash.

His stomach was heavy with an unexplainable dread.

Had hours passed?

Tubbo should have returned by now.

Phil heard the prison door open again and instantly darted to the bars, peering into the corridor for a glimpse of who it was. The person’s steps rattled with the metallic clang of armour and, as soon as he saw their silhouette, it became clear it was just a guard, here to take away his breakfast tray and replace it with lunch.

Phil twisted away from the bars, stepping back across the cell, clenching his eyes shut. There was no way he would be able to handle any food, not with the churning in his stomach and the tightness of his throat. 

Where was Tubbo?

He listened as the footsteps came to a stop and the clang of the food tray dropping to the ground sounded. 

How did they think this was appropriate? They had to know the news too, know what had happened, know how it was affecting him. And yet here he was, being delivered lunch like it was a normal day. Like the world hadn’t just collapsed.

Phil turned back around as the guard retreated, ready to ignore the food, to pace back to the bars, but paused as he actually saw the tray. The bowl was empty of food, instead holding a leather-bound book.

The dread returned ten-fold.

Maybe it was just a message from Tubbo. He had the communicator and was going to wait to return. Maybe something had been found at Logsted, a message from Tommy, a—

No, Tubbo would have mentioned something like that. This wasn’t from his son. Phil blinked hard, swallowed heavily, inhaled deeply.

He crept forward warily and stooped to lift the book from the bowl. It looked to be newly-crafted, with a blank cover and an uncreased spine. Phil opened it to the first page.

His body went numb.

His fingers slackened and the book fell to the ground, landing on the tray with a clatter that made him flinch. 

The open page stared up at him, clear but for a familiar, horrifying smile scrawled in its top corner. Bile rose in Phil’s throat as he stared down at it. 

At the messy smile.

At Dream’s smile.

He felt sick. He felt terrified. He felt helpless.

Phil’s head jerked up, but the guard was already gone.

Tubbo still hadn’t returned.

He was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao get jebaited. no way i was gonna make things that easy
> 
> Most of this was written prior to March 1st and, well, the grief certainly aged poorly. If you'd like to read about Tommy _actually_ dying, here's a [oneshot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29792079) I wrote of his death
> 
> KURO DID SOME HEARTBREAKING [ART](https://twitter.com/HIOBOWY/status/1368054963205775361?s=20) OF PHIL’S REACTION TO FINDING OUT ABOUT TOMMY'S 'DEATH'  
> MORE EPIC [FANART](https://twitter.com/_megaronii_/status/1364238803641257984?s=20) BY MEG OF PHIL _AFTER_ FINDING OUT ABOUT THE 'DEATH'  
> [ANOTHER](https://twitter.com/smol_isa/status/1368745942158094342?s=21) BY ISA, ALSO OF PHIL’S MOURNING
> 
>  **warnings:**  
>  considered self-harm (it doesn't actually happen)  
> a misunderstanding over an implied/referenced suicide (it also didn’t actually happen — we know Tommy’s still alive — and the suicide itself is not mentioned in much detail at all)

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are very much appreicated!
> 
> Join the [discord server](https://discord.gg/p7hCE9wxKP)! You'll get updates as to the status of how the writing is going and also when I do publish, the chapter update emails get sent out with a delay so if you join you get notified of updates like an hour earlier. We're also just cool! 
> 
> And here’s my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/cursewormm) if you wanna drop me a follow — more importantly, though, follow [megaronii](https://twitter.com/_megaronii_?s=21), who beta reads and is generally super epic
> 
>   
> People seem to be making fanart for the fic, so I’ve decided to make a hashtag! Please, if you post fanart of the fic anywhere, both mention me in it (@cursewormm on Twitter, @_curseworm on instagram — though my insta is private and I won’t be accepting any follow requests) and use the hashtag #tlgofanart (for ‘the lights go out’)!!  
> That’s **#tlgofanart** for fanart of the fic!!
> 
> The fanart is all linked in the notes of the relevant chapter, but [here’s](https://twitter.com/i/events/1342574123277373440?s=20) a Twitter moment I made with all of it that’s posted on Twitter!  
> Please go check it out and give the amazing artists some love!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Knock the Ice from My Bones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28100541) by [MollyPollyKinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyPollyKinz/pseuds/MollyPollyKinz)
  * [Dream SMP Oneshots [Previously "New (Old) Clothes"]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28128006) by [afeatherinthewind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afeatherinthewind/pseuds/afeatherinthewind)
  * [Ɗҽ⨍ყιɳց Gɾαʋι𝜏ყ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158843) by [stardustcoral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustcoral/pseuds/stardustcoral)
  * [Welcome (I've Come) Home, Brother](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29216967) by [Jackie_Boi (DontMindMeImJustAMeme)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontMindMeImJustAMeme/pseuds/Jackie_Boi)
  * [You'll Live, I Promise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28911195) by [ac0n1t3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ac0n1t3/pseuds/ac0n1t3)
  * [Runaway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29856792) by [abby1090](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abby1090/pseuds/abby1090)




End file.
